Collard Greens

“Collard greens grow throughout the South and, probably as much as any other food, serve as a culinary Mason-Dixon line. Some claim greens kept Sherman’s scorched-earth policy from totally starving the South into submission; many today can testify to surviving Depression winters with greens, fatback, and cornbread. Southern childhood memories often focus on collard greens: either the pleasant, loving connection of grandma’s iron pot and steaming potlikker, or the traumatizing effects engendered by the first whiff of the unmistakable odor for which greens are famous. Writing in the Charlotte Observer in 1907, Joseph P. Caldwell explained, “The North Carolinian who is not familiar with pot likker has suffered in his early education and needs to go back and begin it over again.” Particularly among rural and poor southerners, collard greens have endured as a dietary staple.

Sometimes defined as headless cabbages, collards are best when prepared just after the first frost, though they are eaten year-round. They should always be harvested before the dew dries. When being prepared, they are “cropped,” then “looked,” then cooked; that is, cut at the base of a stalk, searched for worms, and then cooked “till tender” on a low boil, usually with fatback, or neck or backbone, added. The resultant “mess o’ greens,” topped with a generous helping of vinegar, can easily make a meal in itself. If they are summer greens (and much tougher), the tenderizing could take two hours or more of cooking; after first frost, it may take less than an hour. A whole pecan in the pot should eliminate the pungent and earthy smell. Potlikker, the juice left in the pot after the greens are gone, is a southern version of nectar from the gods and is valued both as a delicacy—particularly when sopped with cornbread—and for its alleged aphrodisiacal powers. Greens combine well with black-eyed peas and hog jowl in the South’s traditional New Year’s Day meal. To ensure good fortune, one should either eat lots of greens or tack them to the ceiling. In fact, a collard leaf left hanging over one’s door can ward off evil spirits all year long.

Though collard greens are grown year-round throughout the South and Southwest (Indians call them quelites), they are most prevalent in the Deep South and the eastern plains of North and South Carolina. The exporting of collards to displaced southerners in the Northeast has become a big business in the three leading collards-producing states. From the last week of October through May, eight firms from Georgia and the Carolinas ship a thousand tons of whole, fresh collards a week to the major northeastern metropolitan areas. The greens are cut and banded, then packed in bundles on ice, about 25 pounds per box or 20 tons a truckload.”

~ Alex Albright, East Carolina University. Excerpt From “The New Encyclopedia of Southern Culture”, John T. Edge (Editor)

Okra

“I remember rediscovering okra as a young chef. One of the farmers who delivered our summer produce invited us to his farm for a visit. I had never seen okra growing in the field before, and was mesmerized by the sight: verdant rows of lanky stalks with broad leaves and gorgeous, hibiscus-like flowers blooming alongside ridged, finger-like pods pointing toward the sun. He clipped off a young tender pod and bit right into it, next offering me one. It was sweet and crunchy, and warm from the afternoon heat. I had only ever tried okra cooked and was stunned at how good it was raw, straight from the plant.

Until then, I had never thought much about okra beyond the traditional fried and stewed versions, which can both be either amazing or horrible depending on how they are prepared. Now it’s one of my favorite summer vegetables to work with. It is incredibly versatile: crisp and sweet when raw, sumptuous and meaty when roasted or sautéed, addictive when dipped in cornmeal and deep-fried. It builds layers of flavor and texture when stewed in soups and gumbos.”

~Steven Satterfield

Okra is a flowering plant like its cousins cotton, cocoa, and hibiscus, loves poor soil, unpredictable rains, and heat. It does not like frost, which is why many living above the Mason-Dixon Line are unfamiliar with its goodness or view it with suspicion.  So much of the world relishes it. In India it is called “lady fingers.” Africans frequently call it “gumbo,” a term that has taken root in Louisiana and other Cajun areas as well as in the Gullah region of South Carolina and Georgia.

Purchasing: When buying okra, look for the smallest pods. By the time larger pods are cooked, they are much less palatable. If the smaller ones are not available, slice the larger ones on the diagonal before preparing.

Cornmeal Fried Okra

Fried okra is served everywhere in the South, but that doesn’t mean it’s always good.  Same goes for stewed Okra and Tomatoes.

2 pounds fresh okra, smallest size preferred, washed
½ teaspoon kosher salt
3 quarts good frying oil
2 cups extra-fine cornmeal
5 tablespoons cornstarch
1 teaspoon fine sea salt, plus more to taste

Trim the tops off the okra and slice the okra in half. Place the trimmed okra in a dish and pour 1 cup water over it, then sprinkle with ½ teaspoon kosher salt. Agitate the okra in the water and let it sit 10 to 15 minutes. While the okra is soaking, using a frying thermometer, slowly heat the oil to 350°F.

In a bowl, whisk together the cornmeal, cornstarch, and sea salt. Pull a handful of okra from the dish and allow it to drain in your fingers a few seconds, then drop the okra slices into the cornmeal mixture. A metal skimmer works well.  Toss to coat well, remove the okra from the dredge and sift the excess dredge away, being careful not to knock off too much coating. Repeat the dredging process until all the okra is coated and ready to fry. Working in batches, drop the coated okra into the hot oil and fry until crisp and golden, around 5 minutes. Do not overcrowd the pot. Transfer the hot okra to paper towels to drain, and sprinkle with more fine sea salt.

Serve immediately.