Ode to a Cookbook

The story begins in 1973. I was a bachelor, newly hacked from my mother’s apron strings, and just learning to cook for myself. I was working at a small radio station in Kannapolis, North Carolina. The call letters were WGTL. The owner, who also owned a funeral home, was named Fred Whitley. The joke was that the station’s call letters stood for “Whitley Gets Them Last.”
     I was doing my air shift, alone in the station one afternoon, and in walked a young lady with a backpack. She was on one of those summer jobs where students went door to door selling books and magazines. They would always come up to you and say something like, “I’m trying to win a trip to Jamaica, and I need to sell so many books by such and such a date.”
     My first thought was “Why the hell do I care if you go to Jamaica?” But she was cute and energetic, so I figured she was worth my time. She proceeded to lay out a series of offers for various books and magazines, and I pretended to be interested, until she pulled out this huge cookbook.
     “This cookbook is dedicated to American cooking, “she said. “It has recipes for any type of American food you can think of.”
     “How about Moose?” I asked, trying to stump her.
     “Moose?” she repeated, accepting the challenge and deftly flipped to a section entitled “Game”
     “Moose!”, she said with a triumphant smile, holding up the book, which was open to a page which had recipes for “Moose Fondue, Moose Roast”, Moose Stroganoff”, and the ironically named “Moose Swiss steak.” She had obviously done this before. The Moose recipes were tucked between “Elk Noodle Stew” and “Opossum with Sweet Potatoes”. I was hooked.
      I was an avid hunter in those days and any cookbook that held innovative ways to scorch hapless fuzzy creatures was a winner in my mind. She pointed out that the ingredients in each recipe are listed in the order that they are used, as well as any required prep, which was an innovation back then and still not true of all recipes even today.
      One of my pet peeves is to have to stand there with a knife in one hand and an onion in the other and feverishly to scanning down into the directions to find out what to do with it, but this book listed things like "One medium onion, finely chopped." No guessing involved.
      So I bought the book for $15.00, which was big money for me back then.
      Over the years, I have used that cookbook more than any of my others; more than my Betty Crocker, more than my Joy of Cooking, more than my Escoffier. Especially my Escoffier. The book is called The Illustrated Encyclopedia of American Cooking. I once loaned the book to my mother, who liked it so much she almost didn’t give it back.
     The wide range of fare covered in the cookbook can be sensed, perhaps in its first three entries: Abalone, Almond, Avocado. As you can see, the book is arranged in alphabetical order by subject—from Abalone to Zucchini. Why, it’s like an encyclopedia! No flipping through a list of techniques or back to the index to find a recipe. If you want to cook beans, flip to the bean pages a Bam! (to coin a phrase), there are pages and pages of recipes for all types of beans, including my favorite bean dish, Spanish Limas. The scant nod to techniques is in the glossary--They assumeyou already know the difference betwene "saute" and "sear". Each section begins with a couple of paragraphs about the food in question, including information on the history of the ingredient and paragraphs on buying, storing and preparation.
     Of course, recipes being what they are, there can be somewhat of a confusion factor: Is Chili with beans listed under Chili, or under Beans? (Chili) This can be mitigated somewhat if you remember to look under the main ingredient for whatever your trying to cook. There is, for instance, no section for cookies, but under Oatmeal, you will find Apple Filled Oatmeal Cookies, Lace Cookies, Oatmeal-Chocolate Chip Cookies, Oat Cookies and Oatmeal Roll Outs. But you won’t find those ever popular chocolate oatmeal drop cookies—they’re listed under Chocolate.
      And that brings me to another thing that sold me on the cook book initially. This is the book that, if you get home late at night and about all you have in the house is a can of olives, half a dozen eggs and a jar of peanuts, you can find a recipe.
      Remember, this was way before the days of 24 hour Wal-Marts or McDonald’s drive-throughs. In those days in my small town in North Carolina, everything was closed by 8 PM, and so when I got off work at midnight, the pickin’s were slim indeed.
      The book has served me as a bachelor, through my marriage and into my mature years. Favorite holiday recipes include Wine Glazed Ham and a recipe for Eggnog that always gets raves. The recipe calls for, among other things, 12 eggs and a quart of apple brandy. Even today, when my experience and ability is at a much higher level that forty years ago, this is still the book I turn to first when I want to find something new to do with, say, a butternut squash.
      It’s also refreshing to read a cookbook that was written back before the onset of our current phobia of anything that is good to eat. In this honest tome, there is no concern for too much fat, protein or carbohydrate. No Weight watchers points, no color codes, just plain old American food, prepared the way grandma used to do it, back when food had flavor. There is no section on tofu.
      Needless to say my cookbook has received a lot of wear and tear over the decades. The cover is missing over the spine, the pages are stained with all manner of spilled ingredients, there are little red check marks on the pages where an old girlfriend marked her favorite recipes—we split up in 1979-- and the last page of the index has been taped together where my niece tore it when she was five years old. She’s forty now.
      Last year I decided to put the old book to rest, so I went to Amazon.com on the off-chance that there might be a used one out there somewhere. To my surprise, the book is still in print; under the imprimatur of Favorite Recipes Press. Now it sells for 28 bucks and change, which, inflation being what it is, is still a bargain. In the customer reviews, I found a reviewer who had almost the exact same experience as me. Small world. I gave the old edition to my daughter who is just now trying to make her way in the world, as I was when I first came across it.
      In the newer edition, the cover and some of the internal color photos are updated, but otherwise, it is essentially the same as my original, with the same recipes on the same pages, including many of the original black and white photos. I bought a used-but still in good shape-1992 edition and it now holds a special place on my kitchen book shelf. Though trends in cuisine seem to change as often as the wind, good cookbooks, like your grandmother’s recipe for soup stock, never go out of style.

Eggnog Supreme a’ la The Illustrated Encyclopedia of American Cooking
12 eggs, separated              1pt. light cream
1-1/2 cups sugar                 1 pt. heavy cream
1 qt apple brandy                Nutmeg
2 qt. milk

Blend egg yolks with sugar. Add brandy. Add milk and light cream blending well. Beat egg whites until soft peaks form. Whip heavy cream until fluffy. Fold egg whites and whipped cream into yolk mixture. Chill. Sprinkle with nutmeg to serve. Yield: 40 servings.

Nowadays eating raw eggs is frowned upon due to the risk of salmonella. Use your own judgment.


Spanish Limas a’ la The Illustrated Encyclopedia of American Cooking
1 med. onion, chopped                                1/8 teaspoon cayenne pepper
1 green pepper, chopped 1 tsp.                    Worcestershire sauce
2 tbsp. butter or margarine                            2 c. canned lima beans, drained
1 c. canned tomatoes                                    1 ½ c. grated process cheese
1 tsp. salt (we substitute Colby or ¼ tsp. pepper Cheddar)

Saute’ onion and green pepper in butter until golden; add tomatoes. Simmer for 10 minutes. Add seasonings and beans. Alternate layers of bean mixture and cheese in a greased 1-qt casserole. Bake in 350 degree oven for 30 minutes. Yield: six servings.

The Worcestershire sauce adds an interesting twist.

. . .and just so you know I wasn’t exaggerating;


Peanut Sandwich Filling a’ la The Illustrated Encyclopedia of American Cooking
1 sm. bottle olives                          Dash of pepper
1 sm. Bottle sweet pickles              1 tsp. dry mustard
4 hard boiled eggs                          1 egg
½ lb salted peanuts                         ½ cup vinegar
1 tsp. salt                                       1 c. milk
6 tsp. sugar                                    1 tbsp. butter
2 tsp. cornstarch                             Bread slices

Process olives, pickles, eggs and peanuts in a food processor or blender. Combine salt, pepper, cornstarch, sugar and mustard, blending well. Beat in egg , vinegar and milk. Place vinegar mixture in a saucepan over low heat. Cook, stirring constantly until thickened. Stir in butter until melted. Add peanut mixture, blending well. Spread filling between bread slices.

I’ve never had the nerve to try this, so if you do, let me know what it’s like.



My 1992 edition of The Illustrated Encyclopedia of American Cooking beside myolder, tattered edition















Doing The Lord's Work

Bucky’s Barbecue is a true American success story. About ten years ago Wayne Preston’s machinery business was going under. Nearing bankruptcy, he needed $500.00 immediately to keep the lights on in his house. He didn’t know where he was going to get it. In a fit of desperation he fired up his smoker in his back yard on Roper Mountain Road near Greenville, SC and began selling barbecue. He got his $500.00 and embarked on a path that would change is life forever.
He was a welder by trade, and continued his welding business while selling pork on the side. Then, in church one Sunday morning, his preacher challenged the congregation to try something they thought was impossible and trust in the Lord to see them through. Despite Jesus’ anti-swine bias, --he was a Jew, of course, and he did cause a bunch of hapless porkers to dive lemming-like into the sea, while he simultaneously invented the verb “to demonize”--Wayne took his preacher’s sermon as a sign from God and decided go into the barbecue business whole hog (so to speak.). After a brief struggle with the zoning board, and some help by members of his church family, Bucky’s Barbecue became a reality. (He chose the name because it had a catchy sound to it.) Now Preston has three restaurants, the original on Roper Mountain Road, near where he sold his first shoulder off his back yard smoker, and a second at the Donaldson Center of US 25 South of Greenville, and one in Fountain Inn, SC.
The Bucky’s on Roper Mountain Road is usually packed at lunch time. Men in suits and ties eat and rub shoulders with guys with their names over their shirt pockets. The walls are covered with pig paraphernalia, ball caps, and patriotica. Bucky or his son, a graduate of the Economics program at Anderson College, often man the counter, where the plate comes with pork and your choice of sides, including sweet potato crunch, and my personal favorite, pleasantly spicy Cajun pintos. Plates are accompanied with that epitome of gastronomic efficiency, sliced bread. The table squirters allow a choice of Wayne's own vinegar, or tomato-based sauce plus a mustard –based condiment created by his son-in law who’s from the Shealy clan, the last name in barbecue in the South Carolina Midlands. Drinks are self service, and the ice is dipped out of a portable plastic cooler--the kind you take to the beach.
The quality of the food and simplicity of service have made Bucky’s an icon of the local lunch crowd. It seems Wayne’s prayers have been answered. Maybe Jesus was only joking about the pigs…. (Photo by Chris Lipp)
Diner rating: 4

Guts and Glory

We are at the Kingstree Pigpickin’ on a cold, muddy October morning. It is my fourth event as a novice judge; the event where I am to be awarded my apron signifying that I am finally a certified barbecue judge, and I am wondering if I have the guts to go through with it. There are about 16 tables lined up in four rows in the unheated gymnasium where the judging will take place. I watch the other judges filter in and exchange greetings and war stories but my mind is on other things. My wife calls me over to meet a couple she has found from our own neighborhood. We exchange pleasantries. I talk man talk with the husband (“When did you leave town? How long did it take? What route did you drive? Are you going back the same way?”) Still, I’m having trouble concentrating. Something’s weighing on my mind, affecting my confidence in being able to successfully carry through with the day’s events.
Yesterday was bosses day, and since I am both a boss and a subordinate, the day was a moveable feast. My folks honored me with breakfast at the local Cracker Barrel restaurant, where I ate eggs, bacon toast and grits. I, in turn took the old man out to lunch at a swanky downtown joint in my home town, where I had a large tuna salad sandwich and some tasteless bread pudding.
Then upon arriving in Kingstree late the previous night We stopped by Brown’s Barbecue and rubbed elbows with the Realtree® crowd while taking a couple of swings at the buffet(Excellent barbecue, turkey and dressing, collards, rutabagas and a large salad). Browns had been recommended by Lake High, and if he recommends a barbecue joint, you need to pay attention. Then, upon leaving the motel, the next morning and feeling sorry for my wife, who wasn’t going to get to eat for several hours, we stopped at the Huddle House, to get her some food, and I and had a sympathy breakfast of two eggs and bacon with coffee.
There are now four meals stacked in my colon, and I’m wondering when they will want out. Kingstree is one of the largest events in the state. There are 65 cookers who have been up all night slogging through the mud in the cold rain. One has set his tent on fire. They all expect us to give them our best shot at picking one of them as the premier barbecue cooker of the day.
A good number of judges have shown up. Because the barbecue is very good, many judges refuse to miss this event. Still, it is clear that there is going to be a lot of barbecue for me to judge. I’m wondering where I’m going to put it. My biggest fear is that all of the previous day’s food will decide to find a way out at the wrong time, forcing me to bolt from my table in the middle of the judging causing great embarrassment to me and perhaps a disqualification for my table. At the last minute before the judges instructions I excuse my self and head for the nearest stall where I spend a few minutes in unproductive solitude.
Back at the auditorium, I ask the event Marshall if there is to be a novice table. Due to the large amount of barbecue and the relatively small number of judges there is not.
“Were gonna throw you to the wolves and watch you like a hawk.” He says.
I find a seat on a hard steel folding chair and wait through the instructions. There is a small controversy over who will be our table captain, but it is quickly sorted out. Then there is a minor ceremony where newly certified judges, including myself are given our aprons.
As we wait for the onslaught, I decide that if I take very small bites of the coming barbecue, as well as the bread and water we use to cleanse out palettes between samples, I may be able to get all seven or eight samples down without causing movement to begin. We exchange small talk across the table until we here the air horn signifying it is time for the cookers to start bringing in their product. The rest of the morning is a blur of smelling, tasting and scoring as the boxes fly in the door. When it’s over I have the remnants of seven samples on my mat. All of it of very high quality, but the spiciness we had expected from these low country cookers has been somewhat subdued this year.
I turn in my score card and clean up my space, grateful that I have made it through the judging without the need for an embarrassing exit. I have time to visit the grazing table where the left-overs are being sampled, and get my wife a plate, and some to take home as well. There is plenty to go around.
Finally we start the two hour drive back home, taking time to stop and buy some handsome collards and turnips on the way out of town from the back of a pick up owned by a farmer who tells me he turned 90 the previous day.

* * *
On the road home, we stop at a farm stand about a half hour east of town. While my wife is browsing the produce, I sneak into the cold, bare men’s room. After about 15 minutes of staring at an unconnected water heater in the corner and counting cob webs stuck to the rough hewn planks in the corners of wall, I emerge feeling somewhat lighter on my feet.
I cinch my belt up an extra notch, and go off to find my wife.

Safe at home, the Diner sports his new apron.