About me, “Annie”

IMG_6353-1024x928Bare feet, Front porch swings, deer hunting, coon dogs, four-wheelers, camo, dirt-track racing, Nascar and moonshine were all part of the life I knew growing up in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina.  Just add sweet tea that hurts your teeth, banana pudding, chicken pie and boisterous Sunday dinners surrounded by family, and you have priceless.

I will always love the North Carolina of my childhood, nestled in the foothills of the mountains that surrounded my entire world…Gods country.  There, in Ronda, N.C.  wasn’t Ann, I was Annie. Except to my Grandma, who always called me Betty Ann.

Now, I do like big family dinners,  and I loved Thanksgiving growing up. We would head over to my great-grandmother’s house where the entire extended-family would gather. All the cousins would come in from out of town and We Would FEAST.

I remember being in the thick of it with my relatives like it was just yesterday. Surrounded by twenty-some cousins who ranged in age from 6-21, the scrumptious aroma of dinner cooking…it was heaven. Suffice it to say, we had ourselves a grand ol’ time.

It was the same for years until – well, until it just wasn’t the same anymore. When the family patriarchs passed on, so did bits and pieces of the traditions they’d kept alive all those years, I suppose. But I digress.

I’ll never forget those frosty Thanksgiving Day mornings that started at the crack of dawn. We kids, for reasons unknown to us at the time, were not allowed out of the house during those early morning hours, especially not out back by the barn — or the hog lot that was in clear view of the backyard. The men-folk would all eat an early breakfast and then head out back, where they stayed for several hours. Once they  they finished up out back and made their way indoors, the kids could go out and play, but NOT anywhere near the pack house. In fact, it was years before I realized what those men were actually up to so early on those Thanksgiving mornings — that they were slaughtering hogs; harvesting the meat, and using the pack house to cure the hams and hang the hides to dry.

In the rural south where I grew up, nothing was wasted.  All the hog was used, every little bit. That meant we had hog jowls, pig feet, chitins, pig ears, tripe crackling, and brains.  Grandma would fry the meat in fat, or perhaps boil it for a long period of time as she sprinkled in seasonings and added bits of fat to enhance the flavor.

I can remember savoring all of it, and vividly recall begging my grandmother for brains and eggs for breakfast until I was at least 13.  But he health-conscious adult I’ve become no longer goes “whole-hog.” Sadly, not even pickled pigs feet and crackers — a dish loved, no, ADORED by the Annie I used to be would tempt the Ann of today.

Well, maybe just one bite. For old time’s sake, you know.

My grandparents raised chickens, hogs and rabbits, and the family hunted deer and squirrels. We cultivated big vegetable  gardens, and on my grandparents’ place we picked blackberries, grapes, and raspberries too.  My great-grandmother had a cherry tree, an apple tree and a walnut tree.  We canned jars upon jars of jams and jellies, and we even churned our own butter — and I got to help. I recall going to the dairy with my great-grandmother to fetch milk in gallon jugs made of glass.

I was 10 years old back then, but it seems like just yesterday.

A lot of people I’ve come across like to think the people in the south are simple. You know, maybe we are, but I love who I am because of where I’m from. I  would not change a thing.

For me, “Simple” means being Smart, Independent, Mannerly, Polite, Loving, and Excited about life.

Food, for me, holds a language all its own. I define my family tree by the food we ate, for truly, it defines the person I am today.

The recipes I’ve carried with me into adulthood are true comfort food — not healthy, granted, but comfort food.  I reach for those recipes on rainy days and special days, when I’m feeling out of sorts or when I’m surrounded by last-minute company that stopped by to “talk story” and enjoy some good, down-home cooking. And, if you like, I’ll be glad to share some of those recipes with you, because while words are fine and good,  still  do some of my best  talkin’ through food.

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