greens and bacon. bacon and greens.

in our foodways class this week, we read southern provisions, by david shields, which thoroughly discusses the agricultural and culinary history of lowcountry cuisine.

one of the gems within the book is a hymn of sorts, written by bakus t. huntington of tuscaloosa, alabama, somewhere around 1850 entitled "bacon and greens" (p. 149-150). 

the song was apparently more personally inspirational than i knew, as i found myself buying bacon at the farmer's market today with visions of pairing it with mustard greens and grits for supper. 

so, with apologies to non-meat eaters. and those who find corny rhymes annoying. here is huntington's hymn: 

"bacon and greens"

i have lived long enough to be rarely mistaken,

and born my full share of life's changeable scenes, 

but my woes have been solaced by good greens and bacon, 

and my joys have been doubled by bacon and greens. 

what a thrill of remembrance e'en now they awaken, 

of childhood's gay morning and youth's merry scenes, 

when one day, we had greens and a plate full of bacon, 

and the next, we had bacon and a plate full of greens. 

ah! well i remember when sad and forsaken, 

heart-wrung by the scorn of a miss in her teens, 

how i rushed from her sight to my loved greens and bacon, 

and forgot my despair over bacon and greens. 

when the banks refused specie and credit was shaken, 

i shared in the wreck and was ruined in means'

my friends all declared i had not saved my bacon, 

but they lied - for i still had my bacon and greens. 

oh! there is charm in this dish, rightly taken, 

that, from custards and jellies, and epicure weans: 

stick your fork in the fat - wrap your greens round the bacon, 

and you will vow there is nothing like bacon and greens. 

if some fairy a grant of three wishes would make one

so worthless as i, and so laden with sins, 

i'd wish all the greens in the world - then the bacon - 

and then wish a little more bacon and greens

post script: 

i return to confess that for once i'm mistaken, 

as much as I've known of this world and its scenes, 

there's one thing that's equal to both greens and bacon, 

and that is a dish of - good bacon and greens. 

                           ~

as fall greens arrive at our markets and in our gardens, i wish you the goodness of the greens you love most, prepared in the ways you love most. with bacon or otherwise. 

and speaking of greens, i am looking forward to diving into elizabeth engelhardt's a mess of greens, for next week, which explores food and gender. 

bon appétit,

persimmons falling from the sky.

i have found a secret persimmon spot. on a neighborhood corner. on my way to the wooded sanctuary at william faulkner's house. it has become a ritual, of sorts. to search for fallen fruit. and i'm becoming delightfully accustomed to the additional sweetness along my evening strolls. 

in their autumn deliciousness, persimmons offer lessons. yearly reminders of the bitter astringency of haste and the sweet reward of patience. gratefully and humbly, i accept their teachings. and re-teachings. as i fondly remember other persimmon trees i have stumbled across along the way. 

and here i am. in a new place of waiting: waiting to find my rhythm here. waiting to understand my purpose here. waiting to see where all of this leads. 

but there's something else the 'simmons are saying. about recognizing ripeness. celebrating it. enjoying it. sharing it. lest these glorious fruits spoil in their failure to be noticed. 

though i'm in a place of waiting, i'm also in a place that i waited to arrive at. a place that almost fell from the sky like a ripe persimmon. and its time to embrace this opportunity. to soak up all the goodness i can learn and experience while i am here. it has been easy to be distracted. to be overwhelmed by the scholarly tasks before me. to be melancholy as i miss other homes. to pass by those sweet persimmons right in front of me. but now feels like the time to intentionally be present. to enjoy this while it lasts. knowing this season, like all seasons, is impermanent and will change. 

my days have been spent reading and listening and writing and discussing. a whirlwind of ideas. a feast of concepts. life is constantly challenging and interesting. and i'm growing in ways i don't yet comprehend. and though i can't share everything, i'd like to share a few of the sweet fruits i've come across recently, so that you too might enjoy them if you choose to partake.

a few recommendations: 

• this ain't chicago by zandria robinson. it offers an important conversation about black southern identity, focusing on memphis specifically. 
• the work of theda perdue, who gave a talk on the historical connections between american indian identity and christianity. 
• white bread by aaron borrow-strain. i haven't read it yet, but heard the author speak as a part of the foodways graduate student conference. he encouraged a room full of food scholars to write less about food and more about the realities of injustice. 
• country soul by charles hughes. this is another "i haven't read the book yet but went to a lecture" recommendation. the author was a dynamic, passionate speaker. his book seems to be a critical, well-argued analysis of the collaborative and complex country-soul music scene of the 1960's-70's, centered around memphis, nashville, and muscle shoals. read it and do tell me about it. 

that's enough food for thought for now. wishing you the sweetest, ripest fruits in their own perfect timing. the patience to wait. the courage to embrace.