The Southern Culture of Social Cooking
I have an uncomfortable amount of cook books.
Save for a few, most aren’t written by famous chefs that have commanded the air waves and become celebrities over the past couple of decades. Instead, they’re messy, haphazard collections of handwritten notes, recipes, techniques, and ideas that have been passed down from mothers, sons, daughters, and grandparents. None of them were celebrated chefs or considered foodies by anyone outside of our own dining room. But, when the smells of the recipes contained within these dusty, torn tomes wafted so strongly from the kitchen, they seemed to manifest into the physical being of anticipation itself and punch you in the face with chi waves of deliciousness. At least, that’s what I remember from my childhood; a young boy with a watering mouth and an empty belly waiting anxiously for family dinners while being assaulted by the smells, the pops, and the simmers of whatever my mom and grandmother had decided to cook for that meal.
As an adult, I’ve started to shoulder some of the burden of those same gatherings and, with great responsibility, came many questions. As I’ve expanded beyond just family cooking to working in restaurants and befriending chefs and line cooks alike, one thing always stuck out about my family’s recipe books that never seemed to be an issue at work or while talking to friends who, to this day, still work the line — especially as we’ve started to focus more on the quality of the food instead of the quantity:
None of the recipes in my family’s books are for less than 10 people.
Cooking in the south has never seemed to be about the necessity of food. Of simply ingesting nutrients and calories that guarantee our survival. Instead, it’s about the culture of hospitality — of sharing and experiencing one another’s lives through the joy of tasty food. For my family and many others whose tables I’ve been invited to sit at, we never cooked just for ourselves. Even if it wasn’t a special event, there was always a guest or two (or three) invited; whether it was a new girlfriend, a hungry best friend, or a relative who gave one too many hugs and drank a bit too much of the wine. I remember having this conversation with a friend, a chef who runs his own place here in town, about why he cooked, and the comment that stuck out the most was “It’s the best way for me to show how much I care about someone. Whether I know them or not.” That idea isn’t lost in other places of the world, but seems to be the most prevalent here where the concept of “Southern Hospitality” reigns supreme; where boucheries and crop-sharing, events that brought neighboring farms together, as well as other friends and family, in order to make sure that everyone ate well, were once commonplace and, now in the present, have made a massive resurgence amongst the “small plate,” “tapas-style,” and “portion-conscious” world we now live in. Our culture is one that centers on food. We’re a region that one section of the year is dedicated to festivals highlighting the foods and treats each parish and city brings to the country.
Even at our music festivals, another thing we’re known for beyond our culinary delights, the food that is unique to our culture is slopped into a bread bowl, fried on a stick, and dreamed about until it comes around again. We may be excited that “X Band is playing at Y venue,” but in the back of our heads, especially when we bring people, is always a constant, pulsing reminder of “and we can stop and try this really tasty place along the way that I know you’ll love.” We’re a culture of sharing food, of sharing stories about food, and of enjoying the food that we cook and offer up to our friends and neighbors.
While there are many things that make the south what it is in the minds of people — both who have and have not had the opportunity to spend some time here — the one thing everyone seems to agree on is that we have great food and we love to share it.