When you sit down to your Thanksgiving meal this week, will the dressing on your plate be made with cornbread or wheat bread? Will it have oysters or sausage or chestnuts? When the words, “Please pass the…” come from your mouth, will they be followed by “cranberry chutney” or “green bean casserole” or “giblet gravy”?
The answers to those questions may offer clues to more than your holiday menu. According to Dr. Elizabeth Engelhardt, our family tradition is not the only thing represented by our food choices. At the local and national level, food does the work of culture.
Dr. Elizabeth Engelhardt
“All kinds of stories are hiding in our food,” says Engelhardt, assistant professor in the Department of American Studies and in the Center for Women’s and Gender Studies. “Breaking the codes of food begins with its uses, preparations and costs but ends with the social histories of race, class, gender and place that hide in the recipes, ingredients and food practices we embrace.”
Engelhardt first started paying attention to the richness of stories in food when she was doing research for her first book, “The Tangled Roots of Feminism, Environmentalism, and Appalachian Literature.” She noticed again and again that food worked as a code in women’s letters, diaries, novels and in newpaper columns, suggesting everything from education level to hygiene. Closer investigation showed that something as simple as the choice between cornbread and biscuits in the South can be filled with messages.
Having grown up in western North Carolina and spent much of her life in the South, Engelhardt was used to finding both biscuits and cornbread on her family table and in restaurants. At the turn of the century in Appalachia, however, things were much different.
“Many Appalachians preferred cooking cornbread because it was easy and quick,” Engelhardt says. “You could literally cook it on a hoe outdoors and you didn’t need a lot of equipment. You didn’t have to be a farmer to produce corn. It could be grown as a garden plant. And you didn’t need kitchen help to fix cornbread for your household.”
Cornbread was, essentially, the food of the people. It required only local ingredients and the recipe was adaptable and forgiving. It was a staple in Appalachian households.
At the turn of the century, public health concerns began to surface about diet-based diseases and people both inside and outside the community in Appalachia came to believe Southerners were getting diseases because of their diets. Cornbread became a target.
An alternative offered was the beaten biscuit, a recipe that was crowned as the height of domestic achievement. The biscuit required not just wheat flour, hardly available to many households, but also elaborate equipment that included baking sheets, an oven with regulated temperatures and even a suggested marble slab for beating the dough a full 300 strokes (and 500 for company).
2 cups cornmeal
From John Parris’ “Mountain Cooking.”
1 cup buttermilk
1/2 teaspoon soda
1 teaspoon salt
3 tablespoons bacon grease
Mix cornmeal with buttermilk, soda, salt and beaten egg. Melt bacon grease in an iron skillet. Pour most of melted grease into batter and stir well. Pour batter into hot skillet and bake in an oven at 425 degrees for 25 to 30 minutes.
Beaten biscuits, a national recipe imported into Appalachia, were clearly a middle class food, requiring special ingredients, equipment and extensive cooking time. They served to separate the poor from the moneyed and, by extension, the unhealthy from the healthy.
“In the South, biscuits and cornbread have a lot to say about food as a path to morality,” Engelhardt says. “Hidden in the choice between cornbread and biscuits is an entire cultural history.”
Engelhardt found this true of many foods, and it’s become the focus of the book she is now writing, called “A Mess of Greens: Southern Gender and Southern Food.”
Greens too have a complex history in the South. They were something that people could go and gather after working a long shift at the factory. So although greens were one of the earlier items to be canned and sold, people didn’t choose to spend their grocery money on them when they first had money to do so.
“Greens can be seen as a protest against the time clock that industrialization introduced,” Engelhardt says. “Gathering greens served as a means for both men and women to resist new factory and mine-driven gender roles, as a walk in the woods did not involve company scrip or time clock.”
Today’s world is different than at the turn of the century. The Food Network and other television and radio cooking shows abound. Cookbook authors are near celebrities, and celebrities are sometimes cookbook authors. Grocery stores carry food from across the world and not just local farms. How dramatically has this changed our food choices?
“Thanksgiving is such an interesting example because we have all of this available but many family Thanksgiving traditions are curiously stable,” Engelhardt says. “Even when faced with an amazing diversity of choices, we end up making the same kind of choices year after year. This has something to say about the way this was celebrated in the past and remembering people who are no longer here.”
Mrs. Wardlow baking corn bread in her dugout basement home. Dead Ox Flat, Malheur County, Oregon, 1939. Photo: Library of Congress
, Prints & Photographs Division, FSA-OWI Collection
[Reproduction Number LC-USF34-021461-E DLC].
The choices themselves carry interesting histories, and they’re not always as simple as they may first seem. Engelhardt points to families who use oysters in their Thanksgiving dressing. It might seem like this tradition would point to having come from the coast or having had the money to purchase this relatively expensive ingredient. Not necessarily, Engelhardt says.
“Oysters were one of the earliest canned products in the United States, so at the turn of the century they were available to people of all means,” she says. “Today we tend to think of oysters as a luxury treat, but that wasn’t so much the case. So if your family uses oysters in its holiday stuffing it may connect to this changing class structure and changing food supply networks in the country.”
Even our holiday meals can extend beyond the family table these days. Take the annual Thanksgiving meal at the university’s Campus Club. With nearly 500 people coming to lunch, chef Dai Lien has to decide how to balance tradition with trendy ingredients, regional tastes with national favorites.
“I like to use local ingredients as much as possible,” he says. “Our sweet potato pecan pie uses Texas pecans, and we grow our own herbs.”
And with an awareness of its locale, the Campus Club uses a very Texas spice rub on the turkey before roasting it and opts for the traditionally Southern cornbread as the base for its dressing. Lien has discovered that while the modern palate demands variety, the hunger for comfort food has not abated. Diners want ingredients like hearts of palm and pumpkinseed, but they also want the venerated chicken fried steak.
Understanding the origins of our comfort foods, our holiday favorites and our dietary staples generally requires a look at the women in our families and communities, as women usually carry food traditions through generations. And the questions that lead to the origins can be varied.
“It’s a matter of teasing out what the story really is,” Engelhardt says, “looking at letters, diaries, contexts. What are the trends? When did your family move to town? How long have they been in the country? Where they always an urban family? Who ran the grocery store in your family’s town?”
|The Campus Club’s Acorn Squash Soup
2 small acorn squash
From Chef Dai Lien at Campus Club.
4 tablespoons butter
2 1/2 tablespoons flour
1/3 cup diced onion
1/2 cup diced celery
1/2 teaspoon garlic, minced
1 pinch cayenne pepper, optional
2 1/2 cups chicken or vegetable broth
1 cup heavy cream
salt and pepper, to taste
Read cooking instructions for Acorn Squash Soup.
These questions and others may reveal the messages hidden in our food choices. But when considering the food on your own family table, Engelhardt offers a lighthearted warning.
“A friend of mine told me a story I offer as a cautionary tale,” Engelhardt says. “Her mother always made the holiday ham by cutting off one inch on one side of the ham and two inches on the other. She did that herself when she made a ham. Then finally she asked why.”
“She asked her mother and she said, ‘I don’t know. That’s how I learned to do it.’ So they went to her grandmother to ask her and she said, simply, ‘Oh, my pan was always smaller than the ham so I’d just chop the ends off so it would fit in the pan.”
Sometimes our traditions come from culture and sometimes from convenience, but our favorite foods, with all of their stories, will surely lure us to the table again this holiday season.