2. Sift the flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt together into a large bowl. Stir in the grated cheese (reserve 2 tablespoons for the topping) and black pepper. Add the butter pieces to the flour and cut it into the flour with two knives (or with your fingers), moving quickly before the butter gets soft. When butter is the size of peas, pour in the buttermilk, add the sausage, and stir with a wooden spoon just until the dough is in one piece. If the dough is overworked, the biscuits will be tough. (That’s why making biscuits by hand is the secret to light, fluffy, melt-in-your mouth biscuits. Overhandling, especially by using a processor or standing mixer, creates tough biscuits.)
3. Turn the dough onto a lightly floured, dry work surface. With a wooden rolling pin, roll the dough into a rectangle at least ½inch thick. Use a biscuit cutter (or the open end of a glass) to cut rounds of dough. Gently push the dough out of the biscuit cutter and place on an ungreased cookie sheet. The scraps of dough can be gathered and rolled again one more time. (If not baking biscuits immediately, cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate for several hours or overnight.)
4. Sprinkle the biscuits with the reserved grated cheese and bake for 15 to 18 minutes, until the biscuits have risen and the tops are lightly browned. Serve hot.
SUMMER CHOWDER
• SERVES 4 AS A MAIN COURSE OR 8 AS A FIRST COURSE
6 slices smoky bacon, coarsely chopped (about 1 cup)
1 cup minced red onion
¼ cup finely diced celery
3 cups fresh corn kernels (about 5 ears)
3 cups whole milk
½ pound new red potatoes, washed but not peeled and cut into
¼-inch cubes
½ cup heavy cream
1 teaspoon Tabasco sauce
2 tablespoons snipped fresh chives
1 pound sea scallops, rinsed and patted dry
Coarse or kosher salt and freshly ground white pepper
1. In a medium stockpot over moderate heat, cook the bacon until the fat is rendered and bacon is almost crisp, 5 to 8 minutes. Using a slotted spoon, remove the bacon and reserve. Drain off all but 2 tablespoons bacon fat, reserving the extra in a small bowl for later use.
2. Reduce the heat to low, add the onion and celery to stockpot, and cook in the bacon drippings, stirring occasionally, until the vegetables begin to soften, 12 to 15 minutes. As the vegetables begin to exude their moisture, use a wooden spoon to scrape up any browned bits clinging to the bottom of the stockpot.
3. Using a food processor fitted with a metal blade, puree 1 cup of the corn kernels with 1 cup of the milk. Add to the stockpot and stir well. Add the remaining corn and milk and the potatoes, stirring to combine. Lower the heat and cook until the potatoes and corn are tender, about 35 minutes.
4. Stir in the reserved bacon, heavy cream, Tabasco, and chives and simmer until chowder thickens, another 3 to 5 minutes.
5. While the chowder is thickening, place the reserved bacon fat in a small heavy skillet over high heat. When the fat is hot, sear the scallops until golden brown on each side but still slightly opaque in the center, about 2 minutes on the first side and 1 minute on the other.
6. Season the chowder with coarse salt and ground white pepper to taste. Ladle into deep bowls and float scallops in the center. Serve immediately.
BREAKFAST SHRIMP AND GRITS During the summer before my father died, his friends and family gathered in Beaufort and Fripp Island to say goodbye to him. After the Marine Corps, my father’s life became rich in friendship; his personality bloomed when he did not have to face the world as a professional tough guy. I grew up not hearing Don Conroy say a single funny thing, and it startled me to find out that he could be hilarious. He is the only father in the history of American letters who considered it his just due to sign copies of his oldest son’s latest book. Starting with The Great Santini, he signed with me at his side in at least six American cities. When other writers asked me why I allowed this incursion, I explained that my father and I had to search for ways to say we loved each other without saying the words.
When the visitors swarmed out to Fripp that last summer, my job was to feed everybody lunch and dinner. I own a huge dining room table that was once used as a library table at Cambridge University, and I have fed up to thirty people on it. That summer I averaged twenty diners a shift. My father would always ask, “What’s the chow tonight, son?”
“What would you like, Dad?”
“Everybody loves your shrimp and grits. Everybody loves your shrimp salad. They like that Spanish soup you make. Gashippo.”
“Gazpacho, Dad.”
“Yeah, that stuff.”
“Dad, isn’t it odd for a Chicago boy to be asking for grits?” I asked.
“I’ve always had an ability to grow, son,” he answered. “To enlarge my boundaries. You always missed that about me.”
“Sure did.”
“Colonel Pinkston and his bride are coming tonight. So shrimp and grits is the order of the day.”
As I spent that summer at the stove, I became proficient enough to make shrimp and grits and shrimp salad blindfolded. Cooking is most sublime when it is creative and playful. I sometimes put a little flour in the leftover bacon grease, made a dark roux (being careful not to burn it), and then poured in a cup of water to make a thin but luscious gravy. I substituted red onions, Vidalia onions, scallions, and even garlic when I didn’t have shallots. But I do that with every recipe I have in my possession. A recipe is a suggestion, a field guide and a road map; it is not totalitarian in nature—except when you are baking. My overwrought, disorganized nature does not serve me well when I am baking a pie or cake. Baking is a high branch of chemistry and woe to the home cook who does not follow the homemaker’s recipe with absolute precision. But recipes like shrimp and grits and shrimp salad invite experimentation. That following winter, I prepared oysters and grits for Dad, and he claimed to like them better than he did the shrimp.
Toward the end of the summer, my father asked me to bring him the phone, and I did. He was trying to get some friends of his from the Marine Corps to come down for Labor Day weekend. He surprised me by saying, “Pat’ll feed you like a king. That’s a promise. My kid’s fed everybody this summer. Man, it’s been a loaves and fishes scene down here.”
My childhood was brutal, unforgivable, and long. But I watched my father change after he discovered how much I loathed that childhood. I could tell he loved that I fed his family and friends and him. By the end of his life, my father had become proficient at telling his children he loved us, and he never once had to say the words. • SERVES 4
1 cup coarse white grits
2 thick slices country bacon, cut into matchsticks (about ½ cup)
1 small shallot, finely minced
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
1 pound shrimp, peeled and deveined
1 teaspoon strained fresh lemon juice
Coarse or kosher salt
2 to 3 drops Tabasco sauce
1. Slow-cook the grits according to the package directions. (This will take about 60 minutes.) Set aside.
2. Place a medium, heavy skillet over moderate heat. When the pan is hot, add the bacon and cook until the fat is rendered and bacon is crisp, 5 to 8 minutes. Using a slotted spoon, remove the bacon and reserve in a small bowl, keeping the pan as is, fat and all. (This can be done in advance. Do not cook the shrimp until the grits are ready and resting.)
3. In a low oven, warm four heatproof serving plates.
4. Return the skillet with the bacon fat to moderate heat. Add the shallot and cook until soft but not colored. Add butter and when it’s melted, add shrimp, cooking until just pink, about 3 minutes. Add lemon juice and a pinch of salt and toss to coat.
5. Spoon about ½ cup steaming grits into the middle of each warm plate. Using a slotted spoon, place shrimp on top of the grits. Add reserved bacon and Tabasco to the pan juices, swirling the skillet for a few seconds to create a thin sauce. Pour over the shrimp and grits.
&nbs
p; GUMBO A gumbo is another handy dish to know when you are required to feed the multitudes at family reunions, Super Bowl parties, and tailgating at football games. I made a variation of this recipe for three straight Super Bowls and two New Year’s Day parties when I lived on Maddox Drive in Ansley Park, the prettiest place in Atlanta. I made it once for the crowd that swarmed my house during my father’s last summer. At the end of the cooking time, I also added oysters with the shrimp and crabmeat and crawdads, when I could get them, and I served it in large bowls over rice. The payoff for this recipe is the moans of pure pleasure from your guests as they take in the aromas and begin eating this dish. There is no great beast of an appetite out there that this recipe cannot sate.
This recipe came to me from Julia Anderson, a local artist, and we didn’t change it a lick. It was perfect. • SERVES 8
⅓ cup vegetable oil
⅓ cup all-purpose flour
1 whole chicken
1 large onion, peeled and quartered
1 cup diced celery, plus leafy tops of 1 bunch celery
1 bay leaf
2 tablespoons coarse or kosher salt
¼ cup olive oil
1 cup diced green bell pepper
1 cup diced red onion
1 teaspoon red peppe flakes, or to taste
½ teaspoon freshly ground white pepper, or to taste
½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper, or to taste
¾ teaspoon gumbo filé
¾ teaspoon dried thyme, or 1½ tablespoons chopped fresh thyme
6 garlic cloves, finely minced
½ pound bacon, coarsely chopped
1 pound smoked andouille sausage, cut into ¼-inch-thick slices
One 16-ounce can tomato purée
1 pound large shrimp, peeled and deveined
1 pound picked crabmeat (optional)
The first step to making gumbo is to get all the ingredients ready. Once you are set up to cook, this dish goes together quickly.
1. Place oil and flour in a small saucepan over medium heat and whisk to combine. Cook, whisking constantly, until the mixture turns a dark caramel color and begins to smell like toasted almonds. This is called a roux and it will take about 15 minutes to produce a smooth paste that will not only thicken your gumbo but lend a deep, rich color. Transfer the roux to a small bowl and let cool to room temperature. When the roux is cooled, drain the excess oil. (This can be done in advance and refrigerated for no more than 24 hours.)
2. Place the chicken, onion, celery tops, and bay leaf in a large stockpot. Cover chicken with water, add the salt, and bring to a boil over medium-high heat. Reduce the heat and simmer until the chicken is tender and the water is infused with flavor, about 60 minutes. Remove the chicken and let it cool. Strain the stock and reserve. (You’ll need at least 4½ cups.) When chicken is cool enough to handle, strip the meat from the bones and shred into bite-size pieces.
3. Wipe out the stockpot and return it to medium-high heat. Warm the olive oil and add the green pepper, diced celery, and red onion. Cook, stirring occasionally, until the vegetables begin to soften and color lightly on the edges, 12 to 15 minutes. Combine the red, white, and black pepper, the filé, and thyme together in a small bowl and sprinkle evenly over the vegetable mixture. Cook, stirring constantly, until the vegetables are well coated, about 8 minutes. When the spices are cooked, mix in the garlic, cooking for another 3 minutes.
4. Heat the stock in a saucepan over medium heat. Whisk ¼ cup of the stock into the roux until it forms a smooth paste. Add it to the stockpot along with the shredded chicken and the remaining stock, stirring well to combine. Bring the mixture to a boil, lower the heat, and simmer for 60 minutes, stirring occasionally.
5. While the gumbo is simmering, cook the bacon in a heavy skillet until the fat is rendered and the bacon is crisp, 5 to 8 minutes. Add the andouille sausage and stir to coat with the bacon drippings. Reserve.
6. After the gumbo has simmered for 60 minutes, add the tomato purée and bacon and sausage mixture. Take 1 cup of the hot gumbo liquid out and deglaze the bacon pan. (Deglazing means to return the pan to the heat, add the liquid, and bring it to a boil while stirring and scraping the bottom and sides of the pan to loosen any browned bits.) Add these pan juices to the gumbo and continue simmering until the gumbo is slightly thickened, about another 30 minutes. (This recipe can be prepared in advance up to this point.)
7. Stir in shrimp and crabmeat (if using), cooking only until the shrimp are pink, about 10 minutes.
ICED FRUIT TEA • MAKES 3 QUARTS
4 tea bags
1 lemon
1 orange, sliced, plus more for garnish
½ pint strawberries or raspberries, plus more for garnish
1 cup cubed fresh pineapple, plus more for garnish
1. Place the tea bags in a large heatproof pitcher. Using a vegetable peeler or small paring knife, remove the rind from the lemon, being careful not to include any of the bitter white pith. Cut into strips and reserve. Juice the lemon and reserve.
2. In a kettle, bring 10 cups fresh, cold water to a rolling boil. Pour over tea bags and let steep for 10 to 15 minutes, depending on your preference. Remove the tea bags and discard. Add the lemon rind, lemon juice, and other fruits. Refrigerate overnight.
3. Strain the fruit from the tea and discard. Pour the tea over ice cubes and garnish with a pineapple cube, an orange slice, or a strawberry.
ROQUEFORT DRESSING In the summer of 1962, I first tasted Roquefort cheese dressing at Harry’s Restaurant on Bay Street in Beaufort. Nothing had tasted so rich or wonderful to me; I had never heard of Roquefort cheese in my life; no Roquefort ever set foot into the Conroy household as I was growing up. Harry’s salad dressing had a body and an elegance I had never tasted on a salad. It was the first time I realized that something as simple as lettuce could be raised to sacramental levels by something as simple as a sauce.
For years I have begged Harry Chakides for the recipe for his Roquefort dressing. Harry is a Citadel man, and I had a crush on his wife, Jane, when I was in high school. (Girls of Beaufort—a confession—I had a crush on all of you.) But Harry joins other secretive Beaufortonians who hoard their recipes and refuse to share them with me for the appreciation of the larger world. In every decade I have begged Harry for the recipe, but he will not deliver this pillar of his Greek family heritage. One thing is certain: this dressing cannot be called Roquefort cheese dressing unless the provenance of the cheese you use is Roquefort, France. If not, it is called blue cheese dressing. • MAKES ABOUT 2 CUPS
¼ cup strained fresh lemon juice (1 lemon)
¾ cup olive oil
¾ pound Roquefort, at room temperature
6 tablespoons buttermilk
1 teaspoon Worcestershire sauce (or more depending on your preference; start slow, you can always add more)
½ teaspoon coarse or kosher salt
1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
In a medium mixing bowl, stir together lemon juice and olive oil. Use a wooden spoon to mix in the cheese until you have a thick, lumpy texture. Blend in the buttermilk, Worcestershire, salt, and pepper with a few quick strokes. Cover and refrigerate until ready to use.
My love of story has been insatiable since I was a young boy and growing up in the story-haunted South with fighter pilots engaging in faux dogfights over the Atlantic. I can remember falling asleep as my Grandmother Stanny told me about safaris in Tanganyika, belly dancers in Lebanon, and the illegal ivory markets of Hong Kong. My mother, who was no stranger to wildlife, collected poisonous snakes and once told me that a copperhead I caught her for Mother’s Day when she was pregnant with my brother Jim was the most thoughtful present she had ever received. In Kissimmee, Florida, long before Disney World, a mandrill grabbed my arm and refused to let go until my mother and Aunt Helen fought the ape off. “Thank God it was not a great ape,” my mother said in the retelling. My great-grandfather on my father’s side, J. B. Hunt, was a sea captain who claimed he b
rought salmon to the Great Lakes. He also said a painter named Francis Millet rented a room from him and paid his rent with his paintings years before Millet went down with the Titanic, and every Good Friday in Anniston, Alabama, my Uncle Cicero walked with a wooden cross to commemorate the Passion of Jesus. It was a source of great pride to my mother’s family, shame to her, and wonder to me. A poet grew up in the bedroom next to mine, and when she was five, my sister came up after dinner and said to me, “Our parents are both crazy. Both nuts.”
“No, no, Carol Ann,” I said. “Don’t say that. That’s our mom and dad.”
“I’ve been watching how families act on TV shows,” she said. “Our family is nuts. You’ll see. You’ll see.”
Stories have always hunted me down, jumped out at me from the shadows, stalked me and sought me out, grabbed me by the shirtsleeves, and demanded my full attention. I’ve led a life chock-full of stories, and I know now that you have to be shifty and vigilant and ready to receive their incoming fire. Sometimes it takes the passage of years to reveal their actual meaning or import. They disguise themselves with masks, disfigurements, chimeras, and Trojan horses.
When I write, I wait for the sudden appearance of signs and portents in the air, always on the lookout for secret messages encoded in graffiti or heralds disguised as strangers in the club cars of trains. A bright encounter with twins, a brother and sister, on a morning flight to Rome changed the entire configuration of the Wingo family in The Prince of Tides. The wife of a former mayor of Mobile, Alabama, took me out to her yard overlooking Mobile Bay and told me the story of her three-year-old daughter who could not sleep in the heat of the summer. The mother brought the girl out to the end of the dock to watch the sunset, then turned and saw the moon rising out of the east. As the sun disappeared, accompanied by radiant clouds along the horizon, the moon kept rising, pale gold, then pale silver, then a deeper silver, with the child spinning to see both the sun and the moon. When it was over, to her mother’s delight, she said, “Oh, Mama—do it again!”