Pate and Caviar-A Flavorful Childhood
Pomegranates and Paul’s Hot Dogs
Toya and Nip during an Easter so far ago
I have grown accustomed to assumptions being made about me when I share that I am an only child. Some people think growing up “sans siblings” translates to being spoiled, indulged, and pampered. I will admit that I did grow up spoiled. However, I credit my treatment growing up to me having open heart surgery when I was five-years-old and being the oldest great-grandchild more than anything.
My great-aunt Gloria, or Nip as my family and friends called her, enabled my indulgence. She took me on trips throughout the South and encouraged my creativity throughout my childhood. Nip was one of my earliest supporters when I announced at the age of ten I plan to operate my own greeting card line. She was an independent woman well before Destiny’s Child, and her life inspired me to never settle for small-town dreams.
Nip worked as an educator and entrepreneur for nearly five decades. She taught cosmetology to students at James Sprunt Community College Monday through Friday, and then she would travel ninety miles from Kenansville, NC to our hometown of Southport, NC, on Friday evening to operate her beauty salon. The next day, she spent up to twelve hours doing press and curls, relaxers, and wash and sets for black women throughout Brunswick County. For more than half of my life, she only had one day off.
From the time I could ride my bicycle, I spent most of my Saturdays with her at the shop, basking in the power of a woman defining her destiny by helping other women realize their beauty. Nip reminded me of Diana Ross in so many ways–the physical appearance, the soft voice, and she was “The Boss” when it came to her life.
Nip passed away near the end of 2020–the second person to depart my family circle last year. Her passing allowed me to reflect on how she shaped my life by exposing me to people, places, and food, which continue to shape me. An example of this involves the fruit known as a symbol of prosperity, hope, and abundance–the pomegranate
Historians trace the fruit’s roots to an area located in what is known as modern-day Iran. Its path of cultivation stretched through the Middle East with stops in South Asia and the Mediterranean. The cultivation of pomegranates predates the birth of Jesus Christ, and the fruit merits mention in several major religions’ holy texts. I became interested in the fruit through my love of Greek mythology. The story of Persephone being forced to spend months in the underworld due to her consuming three pomegranate seeds fascinated me. Pomegranates were not everyday items in Southeastern North Carolina grocery stores in the 1970s. My fruit knowledge consisted of only pears, apples, berries, and bananas. Occasionally my great-great-uncle from Florida sent oranges and grapefruits, but that was as exotic as it got. One winter day, Nip somehow procured the fruit and presented it to me to try. I will never forget the awe I felt tasting the fruit’s sweetness and marveling at the multitude of seeds contained within. Her efforts allowed me to form a food memory connected to my love of reading. That profound experience inspired me to continue to seek culinary connection to the written word experience.
Pomegranates were not the only extraordinary food Nip exposed me to. When we traveled to Atlanta to visit one of her friends, she also encouraged me to try gyros after Seventeen magazine declared the meat dish served with tzatziki sauce in a pita as the dish all the teens were eating in Atlanta. Gyros is a Greek dish made from meat cooked on a vertical rotisserie served along with chopped onions, lettuce, and the yogurt-based sauce known as tzatziki. It’s origins date back to the 19th century but it became a popular dish in the United States during the 1970s. Meats commonly used for gyros include ground beef mixed with lamb but chicken is also popular. Once again, the words that fed my mind inspired me to feed my body.
Nip encouraged me to expand my culinary horizons and craft memories even when we dined on just hot dogs and fries. She allowed me to spend weeks with her in Kenansville during the summer. During the day, I traveled with her to work and interacted with her students. This experience exposed me to higher education when I was still in grade school and showed my aunt in a different light. We were only a few years away from a time when a black woman was good to be called by her first name, rather than ‘gal’ or worse, by those in positions of power. However, here, everyone called my aunt “Miss Hankins.” That display of respect was profound.
On the way back to Southport, we would stop at Paul’s Place in Rocky Point. The culinary landmark is known for its signature barbecue relish and regularly appears on lists of the best places to get a hot dog in North Carolina. The key to the hot dog’s popularity is the condiment created in response to beef rations during World War II. The owner encountering a pickle manufacturer came up with the idea of the sweet relish. Over hot dogs and fries, Nip listened to me and encouraged my ambitions of writing. Those moments still warm my heart.
Pomegranates, hot dogs, and gyros are just three of the food memories Nip inspired for me. Ironically, I can’t remember eating a meal cooked by my great-aunt even though she had a fantastic house and kitchen. Instead, thoughts of sitting with her on Saturday night in her shop occupy my mind. When the last customer left, Nip would enjoy her dinner, sometimes a sandwich from home or a burger from the Chinese-American takeout restaurant around the corner.
I regret allowing my misplaced pride during my 20s to get in the way of maintaining the closeness Aunt Nip and I had when I was younger. We went decades without speaking. I reached out during the years to reconcile, but we never reconnected. The last time we saw each other, I can’t remember if we even had a conversation despite being in the same room only a few feet apart. Nevertheless, I hope she knew how much she shaped me and took some pride in how I turned out. Regret often leaves a bad taste in the sufferer’s mouth, but every time I taste a pomegranate or eat a gyro, I think of my Aunt Nip and reminisce of the flavorful life she inspired for me.This entry was posted in Pate and Caviar and tagged aunt, Brunswick County, Family, gyros, hot dogs, james sprunt community college, kenansville, Memories, niece, North Carolina, paul’s place, pomegranate, rocky point, Southport on . Edit
Pate and Caviar-A Flavorful Childhood
Today marks forty-one years since my grandmother, Annie Ruth Hankins, died. She was one year older than I am now. I have few memories of her, but those I do have serve as explanation and inspiration for the many things that define me.
Annie Ruth and my great-grandmother raised me for the first eight years of my life. My mother worked and attended nursing school in Washington, D.C. during the majority of my childhood. Mick, the family nickname for my mother, was a voice on the phone on Sunday evenings and summer vacation visits. Annie Ruth prepared breakfasts, supervised baths, and selected school clothing. I can smell the liver pudding, grits, and scrambled eggs she made for me before I walked out the door on my way to school. Annie Ruth made sure before I left the house my hair was plaited with bows and ponytail holders, my clothes were ironed to the point of being sharp enough to cut, and somewhere on my person was a pin. Be it of a pencil, a school bus, or a kitty cat, it was on my person. Mick was the theory while Annie Ruth was the reality of my maternal nurturing.
When I consider how intertwined my grandmother was in my early life, her initial reaction to me seems at odds. Mick told me the first time my grandmother saw me, she refused to hold me. Annie Ruth, a licensed practical nurse whose career was cut short by a diagnosis of lupus when she was in her thirties, expected her only child to create a new life for herself in Washington, D.C.. She didn’t expect that new life to arrive in the form of a six-pound baby girl. During our first visit when I was three months old, My mother says Annie Ruth didn’t say much. Mick said she flew back to D.C. under a cloud of maternal disappointment. However, those feelings seemingly evaporated during the spring of 1972 when Annie Ruth called and asked when her grandbaby was coming home.
While I had my grandmother Annie Ruth for a short period of my life, the strongest memory involves seafood. The Cape Fear River borders my hometown of Southport, North Carolina. Generations of my family and other members of the community earned their living through fishing and shrimping. Yet, for me, the high point of the time I spent with my Annie Ruth was when we went crabbing.
North Carolina aquacultural experts list blue crab fishing as North Carolina’s most valuable fishery. It earns this distinction based on the pounds landed and the revenue produced. The crustaceans dwell in all twenty-eight North Carolina coastal waters, but the Albermarle and Pamlico Sounds, a few hundred miles up the coast from my hometown, yield the largest catches.
When I was younger, my family owned a piece of water-front property. We called it ‘The Creek.’ It was a wide swarth of marshland connected to the Intracoastal Waterway. The family would gather on Sunday mornings in the summer to socialize and catch fresh seafood. We would pack snacks and play 70s R&B as we bumped down the dirt road to the water’s edge. Once we arrived, my aunts would sit on truck tailgates and talk, my older cousins would fling their lines to catch fish, and the younger children would attempt to collect blue crabs.
The method we used is called ‘chicken necking.’ It involved tieing a piece of chicken or turkey to a fishing line or thin rope. We would toss one end in the water and tie the other end to a piece of wood that we would be holding in our hands. Then, we watched for a pull, which indicated the crab had locked onto the bait. When that happened, we alerted an adult who would swoop in with a net and capture the crab
I remember Annie Ruth’s patient face as she instructed me how to tie the line so the crab wouldn’t just grab the morsel and go. She understood giving a child a task kept them engaged and less likely to wander from the group. Her lesson of paying attention to the line to watch for any motion lest the crab got away forced me to retain focus on the assignment. Taking heed to what life presents so the opportunity to obtain your goal doesn’t get away proves to have been applicable in numerous circumstances since then.
Annie Ruth’s enthusiasm when our efforts yielded good results caused me to beam in pride at my fishing ability. Keep in mind, for every crab I caught, my cousins produced dozens using traps flung further out into the water. We would stay at the creek for hours until everyone was either satisfied with the amount of seafood caught or tired of being bit by mosquitos. The family would then move to my Aunt Lizzie Mae’s, where we would sprawl out in the back yard to enjoy the bounty. When I close my eyes, I can still hear my grandmother laughing. It is such a pleasant memory.
Depending on the catch, we either boiled the crabs along with seafood seasoning. If we managed to get crabs in between molting when the shells were soft, we would dip them in batter and fry them. I later learned soft shell crab is a delicacy. Back then, it was simply dinner.
As an adult, I realize those days when my grandmother Annie Ruth found herself able to enjoy herself were rare. Lupus flareups cause sufferers to struggle to perform daily tasks. It causes painful, swollen joints and hair loss. My grandmother’s disease also caused her to develop Raynaud’s phenomenon in her hands, but she still managed to do my hair every morning. Annie Ruth died the Monday before Thanksgiving–dinner wasn’t the same that year.
My family took more crabbing trips in the future, but after we sold the land, those trips ended.
We still get together to eat blue crabs. In fact, we ate blue crabs last month as part of a repass after my aunt Gloria’s funeral. Unfortunately, I left before the food finished cooking. Eating blue crabs has never been the same for me, so I cherish the memories of my grandmother and the lessons she taught me.This entry was posted in Pate and Caviar and tagged aquaculture, blue crabs, Brunswick County, Cape Fear River, grandmother, lupus, Memories, North Carolina, seafood, Southport on . Edit
Pate and Caviar: A Flavorful Childhood
Comfort food means different things to different people. Some people soothe their spirits with homemade meatloaf and buttery mashed potatoes. For others, solace exists in a bowl of steamy chicken noodle soup. My source of culinary reassurance is spaghetti noodles, shrimp, and boiled eggs simmered in Italian dressing which is what I call yak.
Whenever I feel low, I assemble the ingredients and eat until my mood lifts. I’ve been doing this for thirty years because it satisifies my hunger, and the memory of its creation settles my spirit.
Yak’s origin stem from my mother’s struggle to feed a growing eleven-year-old on a limited budget in a new city. She and I moved to Raleigh, NC my first year in middle school in 1983. We left behind the luxury of a network of family, friends, and a matriarch who cooked enough food to quench the appetites of the three generations that lived under her roof.
My great-grandmother’s cooking shaped my palate and defined what dinner should be. When we moved to Raleigh my mother tried to fix the foods I liked, but I would mentally compare each meal to my great-grandmother’s cooking. Anything that didn’t come from my great-grandmother’s kitchen didn’t taste right, so my mother began to improvise and find ways to create new meals I requested. One weeknight, she pulled together three of my favorite things in a frying pan with some onions added for good measure, and yak was born.
Now that I am older, I realize my mother created a version of the dish known as yakisoba. Its main ingredients are noodles, pork or chicken, and vegetables (cabbage, onions, or carrots.) The name of the food comes from the yakisoba noodles. The pasta is made from wheat and best when stir-fried. A signature sweet and salty sauce sets the meal apart from other stir-fry dishes.
Food historians believe the meal originated in Japan during the early 20th century. It was a popular food choice of residents of Okinawa and the members of the United States military stationed there. My mother never served in the Armed Forces and I will never know how she became familiar enough with the dish enough to tweak it based on what was available in our kitchen. My mother has dementia and she sometimes struggles to remember what she she had for breakfast when I talk to her in the afternoon. The fact that I will never know the full origin story of my mother’s version of yak and other tricks of the culinary trade makes me sad.
In the present time of take-out restaurants, specialty grocery stores, and meal-prep kits that can be delivered to doorsteps, serving a dish of Asian origin for dinner is not unusual. Back in the day it was a different story. I grew up eating fried meats, vegetables seasoned with pork, and rice or potatoes for dinner time. We didn’t have an Asian restaurant in my hometown until Y’s Café came to town when I was almost in high school. Luckily, I had a mother with a palate shaped by a decade of living in the District of Columbia. Anything would be possible in her kitchen!
While others made tossed ground beef, beans, and tomato sauce in a pot and called it chili, my mom drove across town looking for suet to create the authentic Texas chili she saw in a cookbook that was free if you purchased three packs of cigarettes. When I would wake her up to tell her I needed to bring a snack for my sixth-grade class, she would search through the house and make tempura vegetables using carrots and sweet potatoes.
My mother made trying new foods an adventure. She respected my disdain for fish with bones, mayonnaise, and tomatoes but motivated me to expand my horizons to embrace the possibilities of different food combinations.
An example of my mother’s willingness to try different things is her embracing of service meat sold at the local A&P grocery store. On occasion, the butcher would wrap loose sliced meats and hot dogs into a package and sell them for one to three dollars. The cold cuts offered no big surprises- If the slices were pink, it was ham. If the slices were white, then it was turkey. If they were reddish-brown, then it was roast beef, pastrami, or corned beef. However, the hot dogs posed the potential for surprise. Sometimes the dogs were filled with chili or cheese. We later realized the grocery was selling re-packaged Frank’n Stuff hotdogs, a product of the Hormel company. Not knowing the origins enhanced the fun and flavor!
That isn’t to say there were some food misses.
In an earlier time, my mother and I chuckled about the biscuits she made from scratch that were so hard she threw them at the wall, and it knocked a picture down.
The dishes my mother broaden my concepts of good food and how the proper association of ingredients can change your outlook. So, when I feel in need of nourishment for my body and spirit, I boil two eggs and spaghetti noodles. I sautée shrimp and onions in a frying pan along with the pasta and protein. I pour in the Italian dressing and let it simmer until it reaches a creamy consistency. Then I eat and relive the memories of a time when my mother and I sat at a glass table sharing thoughts that would eventually become memories.
This entry was posted in Pate and Caviar and tagged A&P, Cooking, Family, Food, Frank’N Stuff, Memories, North Carolina, Raleigh, Southport, Yak, Yakisoba on . Edit
Pate and Caviar: A Flavorful Childhood
Nothing says good morning like a child spewing red liquid on a white bedspread. That was the scene my grandmother woke up to on a summer morning forty-four years ago. My aunt Nip dropped off cartons of blueberries gifted to her by a Duplin County farmer the night before. While the adults enjoyed the summer breeze on the front porch, my flip-flops pittered-pattered to the refrigerator. I planned to only sample a few berries, but I ended up tossing half a carton through my stained lips. The result of my blueberry binge erupted a few hours past dawn the next morning.
“Oh my God, she is vomiting blood!” my grandmother alerted the household. My great-grandmother and cousin crowded the bedroom doorway. My grandmother, a former licensed practical nurse, assessed my symptoms. She determined the source of my sickness and diagnosed me with the pain of embarrassment of getting sick from fruit.
When it came to picking a snack to overindulge, why not choose a superfood? Blueberries are low in calories, packed with fiber, and among the most nutrient-dense berries. Consumption of the blueberries can improve memory, fight urinary tract infections, and possibly reduce muscle damage following exercise. Blueberries may also help prevent heart disease, an ironic fact my family discovered a few months later.
My decision to indulge in blueberries reflects how deep-rooted the fruit is in my home state of North Carolina. The inclusion of blueberries as part of the North Carolina agricultural landscape dates back to1936. A New Jersey farmer headed south in hopes of having a longer production time, and the cash crop flourished. North Carolina now ranks seventh in the nation for blueberry production, and it is the highest-ranked fruit for the state.
“The blueberry incident” would have ranked as the standout childhood sickness story of that year for me. That is until I began resembling a fainting goat and passing out at random times. The first time my action was ascribed to being dramatic. The second time it was a problem.
My family began noticing that simple things robbed me of my energy, and I never gained weight. Typical five-year-old physical activities tuckered me out quickly. My favorite pastime of jumping on beds lost its appeal. My concerned grandmother made an appointment for me to see the family doctor. The doctor listened to my heart with his stethoscope and detected something amiss. He contacted the staff at New Hanover Memorial Hospital in Wilmington, NC to arrange additional tests that afternoon. Getting transportation to the medical center almost an hour away proved to be challenging. My grandmother didn’t drive, and everyone that drove in my family was either at work or school. Thankfully, one of my great-uncles left his job early to take us. Looking back, I can imagine the thoughts in the adults’ minds as we crossed the bridge into the city.
My family assumed the doctor would suggest upping my cod liver oil consumption or introducing Flintstone vitamins as part of my morning routine. No one expected me to have issues related to my heart. Meanwhile, my mind was on getting Burger King on the way home. No trip to Wilmington was complete without a Whopper Jr. and fries.
The staff at the hospital performed an echocardiogram when we arrived. The results prompted an appointment for me to see a doctor at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill Children’s Hospital, and a diagnosis followed. Unfortunately, my going heavy on blueberries a few weeks prior was not enough to prevent me from being diagnosed with patent ductus arteriosus, also known as PDA, not to be confused with a public display of affection.
The American Heart Association defines PDA as an unclosed hole in the aorta. Before a baby is born, the fetus’s blood does not need to go to the lungs to get oxygenated. The ductus arteriosus is a hole that allows the blood to skip the circulation to the lungs. After birth, blood needs to go to the lungs, so the opening closes. If that doesn’t happen, extra blood gets pumped into the pulmonary arteries requiring the heart and lungs to work harder. Because of my condition, I was underweight and at risk of having life-long heart and lung problems. Surgery was determined to be the solution.
During this medical crisis, my mother was in her senior year of nursing school at Federal City College, now the University of the District of Columba. The words in her textbooks were not abstract terms- – they were my reality.
She shared her situation with her instructions and opted to forgo doing rounds in the pediatrics unit. She said the patients reminded her too much of me. She said it would have been too hard for her to lose a patient when my situation had the potential of following suit.
During my sickness, my mother juggled her responsibilities and classroom assignments. The day before my surgery, she spent eight hours doing the nursing rotations required for her degree before driving all night to be by my side when the staff transported me from my room for my surgery.
I was unaware of the severity of my condition. I was five-years-old. My biggest concern was being able to stay up past eight p.m. My stay in the hospital allowed me the opportunity to have access to two playrooms and endless chocolate pudding. And I got to watch all the cartoons I wanted to without having to share the television with my older cousin! What more could a kindergartner want?
I missed two months of my kindergarten year having surgery and recovering. I received a beautiful scar that starts under my left breast and ends in the middle of my back as proof of my improved heart function. The body marking proved to be a moneymaker during second grade. That is a story for another day.
When I returned home, my family greeted me with a celebration dinner featuring my favorite foods like fried shrimp and collards. I jumped on my bed in celebration of being back in Southport, NC after receiving hugs and kisses from my aunts and cousins.
Since that summer, I enjoy blueberries in different forms. I love blueberry pancakes, blueberry pie, and blueberries straight out the carton. Every time I consume them, that summer morning when I scared my grandmother and myself comes to mind.
No amount of blueberries could have corrected my PDA. However, the sweetness of knowing I moved past the limitations of my childhood condition brings a smile to my face every time I pop a berry in my mouth.This entry was posted in Pate and Caviar and tagged blueberries, Brunswick County, Family, New Hanover Hospital, North Carolina, patent ductus, PDA, Southport, Superfood on . Edit
Pate and Caviar: A Flavorful Childhood
Frozen Cups, Lemonheads, and Sour Cream Potato Chips
Summer ended early for me this year. My first playmate and younger cousin died a thousand miles away from home during the first days of August. My memories of her are filled with breakfasts of peanut butter toast and tea, homemade French fries for lunch, and celebration dinners around tables overflowing with laughter.
The news of Crystal’s passing stole the words from my mouth. The news arrived after a routine phone call back home. “Toy, I have some bad news,” my second cousin informed me. My brain processed his words, but what he was saying did not make sense. Crystal and I shared memories on social media a few weeks prior about fatty rice, a chicken dish we grew up eating, often side by side with collards. She described the constant selection for Hankins’ family functions as “greazy goodness.” The dish fed the belly and soul. It saddens me we will never have a chance to enjoy it again.
Crystal represented summertime for me. The two of us occupied opposite sides of Southport Primary school during the school year due to a three-year age difference. June promised increased opportunities to enjoy each other’s company. The sight of her grandmother and her walking up to my great-grandmother’s front steps those hours just after twilight when the mosquitoes seemed to take a break promised a night of giggles and games. Those visits sometimes lasted for days. We would scrunch together in the twin bed in my great-grandmother’s room, willing ourselves to stay awake as long as possible. We would get up the next morning and plan the day’s activities. Once I reached middle school, I assumed the responsibility of preparing breakfast. Crystal and our cousin Leslie joked I had three dishes I rotated in cooking. The choices were peanut butter toast and hot tea, scrambled eggs, toast, and hot tea, or fried bologna on toast with hot tea. I think that’s probably why neither of them grew to be a fan of tea that didn’t come with ice.
An essential part of our daily agenda involved walking the quarter of a mile to my aunt Lizzie Mae’s for frozen cups. Some people know them as freeze cups, ice pops, or huckabuck. The Southern treat consists of juice or Kool-Aid poured into a paper cup, placed into a freezer until frozen, then sold for either a dime or twenty-five cents. Many food historians trace the dish’s roots to New Orleans. For me, it will always be a Brunswick County summer necessity. My aunt operated a brisk business from her back porch along with selling Avon in the front room. She kept a steady rotation of flavors to choose from, and the neighborhood children appreciated her efforts. My favorite frozen cup flavor was cherry. Crystal leaned toward strawberry.
Crystal and I attempted at times to play the family card to get a discount. My aunt had a team of enforcers- her youngest daughters Joy and Vanessa- to ensure any frozen cups that left the porch were paid for in full. Joy and Crystal shared a birthday, so sometimes we got by with a discount.
Lizzie Mae’s also provided fertile ground for lunch. My aunt had three sons at home along with her daughters. When you have five high-school-age people under one roof, something was always getting cooked or ordered. Crystal and I figured if we sat still long enough and remained quiet, we could score a burger, hot dogs, or a sub. When you are a pre-teen with limited funds for fast food, you get in where you fit in.
Afternoons were spent riding bicycles or walking to the corner store, EZ Way, for snacks. Crystal’s favorites leaned toward the tarty and tangy. Some of her choices included sour cream and onion potato chips, Lemonhead candy, and hot sausages sold for fifty-cents. My taste palate leaned toward barbecue chips, Slim Jims, and Boston Baked beans. We both enjoyed a good ice cream sandwich and Now and Laters. During the 1970s and 80s, a child could enter snack nirvana with a dollar. We shared candies and stories of what life would be when we grew up. So much lay ahead of us.
I remember the Fourth of July festivals when we wore matching outfits and enjoyed sno-cones. We served as church delegates for the North Carolina Baptist Conventions during their summer meetings. Those experiences allowed us to travel throughout the state, taught us leadership skills, and enjoy hotel restaurants and room service. During a trip to Wilson, NC with our Aunt Irene, we snacked on popcorn and sodas and watched Gremlin. Sunday drives with my Aunt Nip meant ice cream and the expectation that you better not spill a drop in the back of her Mercedes Benz lest no more rides.
We were inseparable during those summers. The days she wasn’t at my house, we spent hours on the phone chatting while watching Donahue and Divorce Court. A Virgo only child and a Gemini oldest of three didn’t always get along. A disagreement that stands out stemmed from a ride to the post office. We fussed about who would sit in the front sit on the trip back to my house. My mother settled it by putting us out and encouraged us to solve our difference as we walked home. Five steps in, we agreed to stop by my aunt Nip’s beauty salon and hang out with her. We made it half a block before my mother circled back.
Soon those summer months when we ripped and ran the roads in Southport passed into fall days. She assumed the responsibilities of being an older sister to a brother and sister. I moved to Raleigh in the middle of sixth grade. Crystal and I saw each other during holiday dinners. We kept in touch with phone calls and letters. She made strides as a leader in her JROTC unit at South Brunswick High School and formed life-long friendships. She mentored our younger cousins and honored those ties by serving as maid of honor at weddings.
Crystal was a blend of so many beautiful things. The T-ball player crowned princess of her team served in the United States Army Reserves. The Shaw University education major worked in Michigan during blistering conditions restoring electricity and served as a ferry mate in Louisiana. She was a devoted aunt who praised and supported her siblings’ offspring as well as a woman who loved her motorcycles and Jadakiss. The woman who embraced Jamaican culture could whip up the best turkey salad I can recall eating and mastered so many dishes we grew up eating. Her desserts were divine.
The last time we saw each other was at the funeral of a cousin in December. I entered the church late and assumed the woman sitting two pews up was Crystal. Her hair was styled, and her straight back and regal posture reminded me of her. Then she turned, and I realized it wasn’t my cousin who recently crossed the forty-five-year-old marker. We saw each other later that evening at the wake. I was heading back to Durham. I assured myself that I would do better at reaching out. But I never did. Then I heard the news. My summer came to a close on the first Sunday in August.This entry was posted in Pate and Caviar and tagged Army, Cousins, Durham, Frozen Cups, Memphis, North Carolina, Raleigh, SBHS, Shaw University, south brunswick, Southport on . Edit
Pate and Caviar: A Flavorful Childhood
I grew up eating caviar and pate for breakfast. Yes, my morning meals included delicacies such as processed salted roe and forcemeat of liver and spices. For someone who grew up on a dirt road, there were worse ways to start the day. I didn’t have to chop wood, stoke the fire, or perform any morning chores before settling down to start my day. I knew others in my community who couldn’t say the same.
Decades later, I realized the savory culinary treat placed on my plate by three generations of matriarchs was not technically caviar. By definition, caviar is roe or eggs from wild sturgeons native to the Caspian or the Black Sea in Northern Europe. I grew up in Brunswick County, North Carolina, in a town known for fishing, professionally and recreationally. The fish roe I grew up eating were products of mullet, shad, or flounder. Still, fish roe is fish roe.
However, my breakfast staple didn’t come in little jars filled with black edible gold. My roe came wrapped in plastic bags from the downtown fish market or the bellies of fish caught by my family members. My version of caviar also came in cans sold in the bulk food section beside the Vienna sausages, potted meat, and sardines at Food Lion or Winn-Dixie.
Fish roe lost its place on my breakfast menu when my mother and I moved to Raleigh, North Carolina when I was in middle school. Finding canned fish roe proved difficult in the chain grocery stores along Poole Road and New Bern Avenue. The fish roe obtained from the seafood markets on Wilmington Street never matched up to the breakfast I remembered.
Thankfully “the poor man’s pate” I enjoyed many mornings is still an easily obtained option. What I grew up eating is defined as liver pudding. Pate and the pudding I consumed before school shares the essential ingredients of liver and spices. The critical distinction is pate typically includes the geese liver while liver pudding’s origins walk on four hooves instead of two legs.
Food historians recognize liver pudding as one of the earliest pork dishes ever made in the country. The ingredients include pig liver, head parts, and cornmeal, spiced with sage, salt, and pepper, and it defines North Carolina cuisine.
Liver pudding is an excellent example of the adage of eating everything from the pig except the oink. Its Western North Carolina cousin livermush often overshadows its popularity. I have enjoyed livermush and will admit it does have its appeal. However, as for me and my house, liver pudding, or, more technically, Pender’s Pudding will be our winter breakfast of choice due to the manufacturer being located less than two hours from my hometown. The company and my mother also share a founding year.
While fish roe was typically a spring breakfast and liver pudding more fall and winter, butter blessed grits or scrambled eggs often made an appearance beside them on my breakfast plates. These breakfasts of my childhood represent culinary bliss, and I sometimes can’t help but pity those who had Apple Jacks to start their mornings. (Sugary flakes are fine, but I like to think I dined on haute cuisine before I was ten.)
I realize after close to fifty years of trying everything from alfalfa sprouts on a bologna sandwich to zucchini tater tots that many dishes occupy the role of comfort food for me. Those meals and memories define me in ways I am proud to claim.
One of the many reasons I look back in wonder at my culinary landscape is because of the person who offered me the opportunity to challenge my palate. My mother suffers from dementia. The woman who exposed me to so many culinary milestones is fading away from me memory by memory. What remains and sustains us is our ability to discuss food. I can always get her to participate in conversations related to dishes I grew up eating, and those I expanded into making for others.
After those talks, I reflect on how many foods that evoke positive memories in me could be considered ordinary. Food like made-from-scratch biscuits, homemade French fries, or store-bought pizzas sold three in a pack are relatable. Other meals like service meat, butter burgers, and a dish known as yak are unique enough to warrant an explanation when I bring them up to others.
I realize everyone has food touchstones that pave their paths into and through adulthood. As we get older, our palates and perspectives broaden. On occasion, I have eaten pate and caviar and found them to be delicious and, depending on the circumstances, a bit decadent. Nevertheless, I wouldn’t trade those experiences.
I consider myself a somewhat eclectic eater. Eastern North Carolina barbeque, tofu, and Voodoo chips are three of my favorite ways to satisfy my hunger. While there are some foods I can only take prepared in specific ways, my fish has to be boneless, for example. I enjoy expanding my culinary horizons. There are dishes that, no matter how far my palate takes me, will always mean home to me.
In the upcoming weeks, I plan to share and explore the memories they inspire. Bring your appetite and prepare for a culinary journey down my memory lane. Hopefully, it will encourage the reconsideration of life-defining plates of your own.This entry was posted in Pate and Caviar and tagged Brunswick County, caviar, Family, Fish Roe, Food, Liver Pudding, Memories, North Carolina, pate, Pender County, Pender’s Pudding, Southport on . Edit
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