Thoughts on a southern staple: I’d Kill for a Pan of Her Cornbread There are few things in this life worth killing or dying for, but I’d make an exception for a pan of Jewel Gilbreath’s cornbread. I married into the generosity of her kitchen when I swapped vows with her granddaughter, my first ex-wife, back around 1977. Widowed for a decade or more before her death, Mama Jewel, as we called her, lived alone in a stone farmhouse near Cone, Texas. Her front yard was no yard at all. She preferred a prolific vegetable garden to a grassy lawn. Her back yard, bordered by a section-size cotton field, was planted in pear and apricot trees. Her pump house, which doubled as a storm shelter and root cellar, was filled to bursting with the largess of her agricultural endeavors. Canned vegetables and cases of preserves were stacked floor to ceiling there. After surviving the depression, tornados, the dust bowl, and rationing from two world wars, her self-appointed mission was ensuring that no member of her family suffered from want of something good to eat. From that standpoint alone her life was an immeasurable success. She was a tiny, white-haired, bespectacled epitome of a farm family matriarch who drove her Olds “deuce-and-a-quarter” ninety to nothing and punctuated her sentences with, “as to that,” and “don’t you know,” “so to speak.” Her back was bent by a lengthy lifetime of farm labor and tending to the babies of her babies, and their babies, too, but her blue-grey eyes always held the sparkle of constellations in them, and she loved to laugh. I loved to make her laugh just to hear her chuckles. Her whole body would shake with merriment. After nearly ninety years in the flat Texas panhandle, her roots ran as deep as the aquifer that lent life to her garden. She had the fortitude of a triathlete and a work ethic John Henry couldn’t beat. I have yet to discover anyone who can beat her cornbread, either. First off, hers was a southern-style cornbread cooked in cast iron—no sissified sugary pone came out of her oven. That stuff tastes more like cake and won’t do at all dunked in a glass of buttermilk or broken into a bowl of Texas chili, or much of anything else useful south of the Mason/Dixon. Hers was simple and savory, moist and magnificent, golden on top, brown and crusty underneath. It was the ideal accompaniment to a mess of purple hulled peas swimming in porky pot likker. She used bacon fat to make it. When my two grandmothers passed away I was too stoic and macho to shed tears. I loved them both dearly and miss them to this very day, but I just couldn’t seem to turn on the waterworks at check-out time. When Jewel’s journey reached its end I’d been divorced for a couple years. Even though she was my ex-granny-in-law, I was sobbing when I got the news. I believe I was mourning all three of those good women at once—all they stood for and endured, all of the love they had shared with me. In order to better honor her memory, I’d like to pass along her exact cornbread recipe, but I’m afraid that just isn’t possible. See, Jewel wasn’t the kind of cook who needed cups and tablespoons. Nobody makes an approximate 4-ounce measure shaped like her gnarled, hard-working hands. Jewel just threw ingredients together until they looked right. After making cornbread for the ten thousandth time, she just knew. Though not an exact replica, this recipe will get you pretty close, and remember, this style of cornbread was traditionally made with equipment and ingredients commonly found in most kitchens throughout the rural south. For this project you will need a 10-inch cast iron skillet, a wooden spoon, a whisk, two stainless mixing bowls, and a rubber spatula. A 16-ounce Pyrex measuring cup for the wet stuff, dry-ingredient measuring cups, and measuring spoons are a plus unless you’re a mighty good guesser. Mama Jewel’s Cornbread 2 Cups white cornmeal 1 tsp baking powder 1 tsp baking soda 1 tsp salt ½ Cup All Purpose flour 1 ½ Cups Buttermilk 2 eggs—lightly beaten 1 Tbsp honey ½ Cup rendered bacon fat Method Preheat oven to 425-degrees 1. Combine cornmeal, baking powder, baking soda, salt, and flour in a stainless steel mixing bowl. Stir it around with a whisk. 2. Combine buttermilk, eggs, and honey in another mixing bowl. 3. Place the cast iron skillet in the oven for five or so minutes. Add the bacon fat to the skillet and put it back in the oven until it’s sizzling hot—another five or so minutes. 4. While the pan heats stir the buttermilk mixture into the dry ingredients. Do this slowly using a wooden spoon. The mixture should look pretty loose. 5. Working quickly, remove the hot skillet from the oven, stir all but a tablespoon or so of the hot fat into the mixture, then pour the mix into the hot skillet. Scrape out the bowl with a rubber spatula. You should hear it sizzle. Put the pan back in the oven and bake for 20-minutes. Check for doneness. It might need another five minutes. Let it cool in the pan for a few minutes before unmolding. Cut into pie-shaped wedges as desired and serve warm with good butter. Some common questions: Why bacon fat? Why not Crisco or olive oil or motor oil or sun tan lotion? Because it won’t taste the same. Why must I use cast iron? Because it won’t cook the same in a disposable pie tin. Why stainless mixing bowls? Because 400-degree bacon fat will melt your Tupperware. EEE-ew! Do I have to use buttermilk? I hate buttermilk. How about 1% Skim? Yes, you must use buttermilk. Too bad. How does one render bacon fat? Cook seven or eight strips of good quality bacon in a skillet. Make BLT’s for lunch. Strain the fat into a bowl. You should have enough for this recipe. As we say in the bidness, “Chow.”
Posted on: Thu, 03 Oct 2013 20:08:40 +0000
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