Hoecakes or Cornbread Patties, Either Way A Bite of Heaven

  If you know what this is...you win a prize. You are more than likely a tried and true Southerner or you have been here so long you can almost lay claim to the title. This, my friends who are not from the Deep South, is a hoe cake. Don't get the wrong idea, this is not another version of the word for a loose woman, this is a h-o-e cake, as in a hoe, an implement used to dig a row in a field. Also known as a cornbread pattie. Yet another synonym for these little cakes is the word delicious. I am smacking my lips just thinking of eating one hot out of my grandmother's iron skillet.

   Growing up in the summers at the Big House on Cinco Bayou, we would line up at the back door of the kitchen as soon as the word spread that my grandmother Lou Lou was frying up a batch of these beauties. I have watched her make them what seems like a hundred times, but mine have never ever tasted the same. For one thing, I am not eight years old and standing on the back stoop in my bathing suit, dripping wet, and waiting not so patiently for the taste of that fried cornbread smeared with a little butter. It's just so lip-smacking good. Crispy on the outside and moist and chewy like only soft cornbread can be on the inside.
   The Baby Sister is working on the recipe. I drove over one night the time before last when I was home to taste hers. They were good. But I wasn't eight years and dripping wet at the back door standing in a line of cousins waiting for my turn...you get my drift.
   I have a recipe I am happy to share with you novices who have never heard of a hoe cake or cornbread pattie, much less eaten one. However, no matter how hard you try, you will not likely be able to replicate a true hot fried cornbread experience. That, my friend, is reserved for but a few.
   But you can try.

Keep in mind that this is not an exact science.

1. You will need a cast iron skillet. If you don't have one, you better not try this recipe. There is something about the seasoning in the skillet, the depth of the skillet, and the uniformity of the heat that the cast iron produces that are essential for success.

2. You will need bacon grease. Yes m'am. Crisco alone will not do. Nor will any canola or vegetable oil, or heaven forbid, extra virgin olive oil. You might be able to mix some bacon grease with the aforementioned substitutes, but you must have some bona fide form of lard and Crisco alone does not suffice.

3. You will need cornmeal. Real cornmeal ground in a local grist mill is best, but most of you have no idea what I am talking about. Go ahead and buy your Aunt Jemima if you must, but if you can get your hands on some local yellow or white corn meal, do it. It will be ten times better, trust me.

3. White Lily self-rising flour. You will only need a couple of tablespoons, but it is an important ingredient. White Lily is only acceptable brand left other than Martha White for a tried and true Southerner. Neither of these girls will let you down.

4. Real butter. No fake and bake here. Unsalted or salted. Whatever, just make sure it is butter. That's B-U-T-T-er.

Now for some accompaniments.

Buttermilk. Pretty soon you won't be able to buy this in the grocery stores. I am already seeing a dearth of it up here in the upper South. My dear grandmother would roll over in the grave. She loved this stuff and so does my Momma. Momma used to drink a big glass every night just before bed. Truth be told, I don't care much for the stuff, but if you are gonna have a true Southerner experience, you need to have some buttermilk and cornbread. Real aficionados will dip their hot cornbread in their buttermilk or crumble it up in their glass.

Peas. You need a mess of field peas. Not crowders. Little tiny green and white field peas. Hoecakes or cornbread patties go best with peas and a little pot likker, washed down with a tall glass of cold buttermilk.

Now for the recipe:
Bacon Grease
Cornmeal about 2 cups
2 Tablespoons of self-rising flour
Hot water
Salt
(Some people put an egg in theirs, but I see no need. However, you can add an egg if you want.)

Melt your bacon grease in your cast iron skillet. You want a thin layer of bacon grease, just enough to come up about halfway on your cornbread patties, but not completely submerge them. The hoecakes are fried, but not deep fried.

Mix your 2 cups of cornmeal together with the two Tablespoons of self-rising flour. Add salt. Take your fork and stir it up thoroughly. Next heat up two cups of water in the microwave until just about boiling and pour it into your mixture in increments. You will want your hoecake mixture to be about the consistency of a thick paste. Next up are your hands. Yep, you are gonna have to get messy with this recipe. Using your hands, form little patties and immediately start sliding them into the hot grease. Work quickly. If your dough gets too stiff, add a little water. Do not let the patties touch. Your grease should not be so hot that it is smoking, but it should be hot enough to immediately begin frying the cakes. You will only turn the hoecakes ONCE. Wait to turn them until the sides begin to turn brown. Look at the picture above again to help you gauge this. Remove, drain on paper towels, butter them with softened butter and start handing them out to whomever is in the kitchen. Best if eaten immediately.

If your first batch is a little greasy, either remove some of the grease or turn your heat up.

Obviously making cornbread patties is a trial and error experience. That's the way most Southerners like it. It's not an exact science. But then again, most of what we do down here is not an exact science. You cook with your heart and your taste buds. And you eat in community. Hoecakes are the ultimate in community food because they are not much good when they are cold. So make sure there's a crowd in the kitchen or outside on the stoop when you start cooking these beauties.

           Here are some of the cousins at about the age when we were lining up at the back door, jockeying for whom would get the first cornbread pattie. In case you are at a loss to identify yours truly, I am the one on the far left. My other grandmother made my bathing suit, and I really loved that pom pom trim.
          And this is a picture of the Big House. It was the Big House because there is a tiny little house that sits behind it that you cannot see (not to be confused with the pump house on the far right). Calling it the Big House might be a misnomer to some, but it certainly looms larger than life itself in the canon of my memory.

The beloved Big House, Yacht Club Drive, Cinco Bayou

    If you get adventurous and decide to give the fried cornbread patties a try, let me know how they turn out.

Two Peas in a Pod

this photo was taken by my cousin: barbarabanks.com

   The twins are 83 years old today. My Momma was born first, followed minutes later by her sister. For 83 years, they have been the mirror image of one another. These inimitable women were born at the onset of the Great Depression when double births were a rarity, a marvel, and a curiosity. They had individual names, of course, but most people just referred to them as The Twins or used an amalgamation of their two names. My grandmother loved dressing them alike, and they wore similar outfits into adulthood.

My grandparents with the twins. In order to tell them apart, my mother is usually on the left!

Here they are pictured with their favorite cowpoke, their brother.
Of course, the sisters are dressed alike, down to their socks
and their matching dolls!

Matching flowergirls with their ringbearer brother in  a great-aunt's wedding!

   They were precious little girls who grew into beautiful women. They attended the same college, joined the same sorority and both majored in education. My mother was the first to marry the love of her life and to embark upon a journey that led her to places afar. My aunt followed suit a couple of years later. They each bore daughters (my mom had three daughters, my aunt had two) and each firstborn was given the name of the other twin. Their lives were certainly different, but they both eventually traded their jobs in the classroom for careers as media specialists (aka librarians). They spent their summers together at the Big House in Fort Walton with extended family which afforded us, the cousins, the opportunity to become as close as sisters.


 It is an understatement to say that my Momma and her sister have a lot in common. When our mothers are together, we, their children, are always surprised by the commonality in expressions and mannerisms, yet we seldom, if ever, get them confused.


   Even though my Momma is a mirror image of her sister, she is my one and only Momma, and a one of a kind to me. I am thankful for her personality, her love, her sacrifice, and all of the unique things that make up the essence of who she is. She may have been born a twin, but God only made one mother that I joyfully claim as my own. Happy Birthday, Momma dear! I love you so...

Check out the uncanny mimicry...this was NOT posed!

The Club from the Mom

   There are five of us in the Bosom Bottom Buddy Club. We are first cousins and the children of identical twin sisters. The odd thing about being daughters of identical twins is that genetically speaking, we are all half-sisters. The cousins have different fathers but the same genetic mothers. It makes for a weird confluence of relationship and heredity. Ours is an exclusive club, and we have never been tempted in bring in any other initiates. I find it hard to believe that the Bosom Bottom Buddy Club has been around for nearly 50 years. I am not certain when we named ourselves officially, but it was likely about the time that I and my cousin turned six or seven. The name we chose was definitely scandalous to us at the time (bosoms and bottoms were not then topics of general discussion among the populace) and therefore worthy of the secrecy and exclusivity with which we viewed ourselves. Instead of a secret handshake or password, we devised a special greeting: standing side-by-side in pairs, we would butt chests, then bottoms, and as a finale, throw our arms around one another to conclude with a big bear hug.
   Our official meeting place, our erstwhile clubhouse, was an old bird coop at the back of my grandmother's house in Samson, Alabama. While in reality it was was little more than a dilapidated wooden shed, it certainly seemed like the Taj Mahal to us. The shed had a door and two glass paned windows, and the former chicken yard was bordered by a fence that even boasted a gate. The ritual of occupancy demanded that the entire membership be present before one member could enter. Thus it was with great impatience that my sisters and I would await the arrival of our cousins each year. The five of us would be up and outside at dawn's light, and we would play until we were called for lunch and then return to our hideout until we were called again for supper. Lest I give the impression that all was harmonious, 'tis true that we argued considerably among ourselves at times (most usually over the assignment of duties), but I somehow remember that despite our squabbles, we had a deep and abiding joy in that place. We treasured our independence, our protection from what we perceived to be our parents' prying eyes, yet we almost always closely followed the rules they had devised for us. In our private sanctuary, we were as free as only children can be. Sticks became arrows in the hands of a fearless warrior. A piece of rope became the reins for a great steed. The tall magnolia was a lookout's post for an army fort surrounded by marauding Indians. The hours slipped away from us even as the memories grew. I did not know then what a treasure I was amassing for myself.
    The clubhouse we claimed and made our own is there no longer. The winds of change have driven us from that distant shore in the picture above to different cities and different states. We are no longer girls, but women grown and even middle-aged. Yet the tie that binds is still blessed. It is a bond that has endured the passage of time and the warp and woof of life.
    Where have the years gone? They melt away into nothing when I remember how we laughed with delight over the smallest of things and how we can still chuckle and even howl when we get together. When sorrow slept outside the doors of our lives, our friendship, laughter and love have helped each of us to keep the darkness at bay. It was an honor to be with each of you this fall when we laid our dear grandmother to rest. She loved family, and she loved each one of us. As the days pass, I am thankful for the legacy that she has imparted to each of us. The scriptures remind us to owe no man anything except the debt of love. If that is true, then we owe one another and certainly her a great deal. My cousins, my sisters, my friends. I look forward to renewing our ties, our love, and our laughter in April. See you then!