The Straw that Broke The Race Horse’s Back
Posted on April 21, 2008
Filed Under suburban joys, snark, homeownership, holiday fun, My Better Half, parties, bourbon, beer cheese, food |
Today is the beginning of April break and, as is always the case here in New England, the first Monday of the week long vacation is Patriot’s Day.
Having grown up in these parts, Patriot’s Day has always just one of those holidays that is part of a long weekend, a long weekend in which my parents always did copious amounts of yard work and rototill-ed the garden and planted spring peas. But My Better Half, never having heard of Patriot’s Day before moving to Massachusetts a few years ago, insists there must be something more than gardening to the regional affair, something that has to do with Miles Standish and Paul Revere and the Red Coats, or, at the very least, Tom Brady’s being beautiful. I just nod my head and say, “Sure, honey. You must be right,” and return to raking out the garden bed at the base of the front stoop. It’s not that I’m too lazy to google the origins of the holiday, it’s just that there are a zillion yard-related things to get accomplished before the lilacs pop and the leaves flush out on the trees. I assure him that I can properly celebrate the heroes of The Boston Tea Party and the Patriot’s Offensive Line while working the leaf blower.
And while this regionally observed holiday may strike outsiders as odd or, at least, undefined, I suspect that every area of this country has its own unique celebration noted and observed by its endemic people. It’s what makes us so diverse, these different celebratory occasions. For example, while Massachusetts has spring peas and the Boston Marathon in mid-April, Kentucky has the Derby in early May. And, because I embrace differences and appreciate a good holiday as much as the next person, I’m planning a dinner party to coincide with this year’s Run For The Roses.
And even though I am, through and through, a Yankee, I plan to mark the occasion with some good Southern cuisine. My friend and neighbor, a Louisville native who will be attending the event, has loaned me her Kentucky Heritage Recipe Book for menu planning purposes. As it turns out, within its dog eared pages is some sort of secret code to the workings of the South.
All people embrace a holiday with good old over-eating. Each regional celebration has a menu so purposeful and explicit that outsiders can’t possibly understand or fully appreciate the significance of the cuisine to the inherent importance of the event. I know this with certainty after pouring over the pages (mouth open, eyes wide, stunned and amazed), of every recipe in the Kentucky cook book; all of which contain some iteration of bourbon, cheese sauce, pecans, mayonnaise, coconut and lard. Apparently it is the unique combination of these six ingredients by which a dish earns its revered status as truly Southern fare.
And while I know that the British have Spotted Dick, which, as an adult I have come to realize has less to do with a sexually transmitted disease and everything to do with dried fruits and suet (which may be just as gross), I did not know that the South has Bishop’s Whipple which, surprisingly, is not a major surgical endeavor designed to circumnavigate a clergyman’s intestines but, rather, some sort of dessert with dates and pecans and, of course, bourbon flavored whip cream.
The Derby dessert course apparently must also include the requisite Bourbon Macaroon Mold with its layers and layers of coconut cookies doused in bourbon and served chilled with bourbon whip cream. And, just in case the guests are having trouble keeping their party on between the mint juleps and the sweets, there is the Beer Cheese spread which is made with two pounds of “rat” cheese and garlic “pods” and a forty of Pabst’s Blue Ribbon. While I think guests are encouraged to spread this Beer Cheese on crackers, the recipe leaves the exact purpose for the cheese open to interpretation. Perhaps Beer Cheese is used as sauce for the mysterious main course called Scrapple which is made by boiling an unidentified cut of pork down to a state of utter gelatinouity. The meat falls away from the bones, the fat is skimmed and cornmeal is added to the unidentified pork broth and allowed to thicken into a porridge like consistency and then is poured into a mold and allowed to congeal. Once solidified, the unidentified pork porridge is sliced and fried in lard and served hot to guests who are so freakin’ sideways with Bourbon and Beer Cheese that they fail to see this Scrapple as possibly the most disgusting culinary invention of all time.
And if the Scrapple fails to get their attention then the Scotch Eggs are sure to rock their inebriated worlds. I will let the recipe speak for itself, just as it is written on page 18 of The Kentucky Heritage Cookbook:
Boil desired number of eggs hard. Peel and cut into halves. Remove the yolks, mash and season lightly. Refill the whites and press halves together firmly. Cover tightly with country sausage meat. Roll in egg and crumbs and fry slowly in deep fat. Drain and place on rounds of toast and surround with cheese sauce. (I shit you not - deep fried sausage coated deviled eggs on toast with Beer Cheese sauce.)
And if, after all this culinary celebration, there are a few stout and hardy people still standing on two legs rather than squatting on piano benches and crawling to refill their high ball glasses, there will be a refreshing Reception Salad (involving cream cheese, pimentos, pineapple, jello, celery, pecans and, of course, bourbon whipped cream), that is sure to be the straw that broke the race horse’s drunken, lard-heavy back.
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10 Responses to “The Straw that Broke The Race Horse’s Back”
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sorry. i’m sure you wrote a lot of good stuff, but all i saw was bourbon.
bourbon and cheese, liv. don’t forget she’s also talking about cheese.
Ok, most of that sounds disgusting, possibly because I don’t really like bourbon. However, I must say that scotch eggs (served plain, not with sauce and toast) are actually really really good! Eat them hot with a salad on the side. Seriously.
And I’ve never ever heard of Patriot’s Day.
Well aren’t you a brave little Yank trying out a Southern menu
Your post Cce put me in mind of something I read once by Spanish poet and playwright Miguel de Unamuno. It was a recipe for wild boar and started thus: First, go out and catch a wild boar…
The process of making those Scotch fried deviled eggs sounds about as complicated to me as Unamuno’s boar recipe. Still, Edj (above me) does swear by their deliciousness… maybe you should give them a shot. I should like to try them if they turn out good.
Such a funny read. The Bishop’s Whipple ESPECIALLY made me laugh out loud.
You know, sometimes satire just gets in the way of great humor. Nicely played, c (I feel as though it is time we were on first initial basis). This is me laughing alone in a hotel room.
Patriot’s Day has a different meaning to me. The Davisons lived happily in Mass for about 150 years until those rebels made it hard on the royalists. It took us generations to get out of Canada and come south again. To this day we would rather spend an extra century or two than to shed blood. As it says on the wall of the La Jolla Art Gallery, “Brave men run in my family.”
- r
P.S. Package en route to you and G.
Bourbon and Scrapple? I think I have memories of mixing weird food with too much alcohol way back in my 20s…
I totally have to have the deep fried devil egg recipe. My husband is pretty sure that anything will be better deep fat fried and his favorite is deviled eggs. I guess I don’t live far enough south to have experienced such a delight.
One of my favorite ‘dad’ memories is my father frying scrapple in the kitchen, I’m trying to remember if he poured maple syrup over it….no we weren’t drinking at the time, but I remember is as tasting quite good.
Not sure I’d feel the same now.
-suz
[…] After the soccer game, there was a baseball game attended by normal and well balanced parents wearing layers of fleece under rain gear all of which have developed the indisputable signs of ensuing head colds, the Derby party, (which was fun and festive save for the dead horse at the finish line which cast the momentary shadow of gloom (death is good like that) and made the party guest claiming second place in the betting pool feel somehow dishonest. We polled the group as to how important it was that your horse actually trot off the race track and came to unanimous decision that Eight Belles won second place fair and square despite the fact that her life ended minutes later and therefore second place prize money should be paid out. Then we all indulged in another round of mint juleps, desperate to shake off the grim reality of that scene with the equine ambulances on the racetrack). By the time Sunday rolled around, a tennis-related conflict was merely the cherry on the cake of a strange and surreal 48 hours. […]