by Edward Lee
I was thirty years old when I moved to Louisville, Kentucky. I smoked, I drank, I had no money and no plan. I remember my mom, in a fit of exasperation and tears, asking me why I always did the opposite of what she asked. It made me feel terrible. On the surface, it seemed that my life had been one rebellious choice after another. She implored me not to ruin my life just to make a point. I had left New York City and moved to a place I knew nothing about.
Yet I realized then that I wasn’t pulling away from her; I was just following my heart. I have loved reading ever since I was a little kid. I loved Johnny Cash when the other kids on my street were listening to Michael Jackson. And I’ve always sucked at math. Poetry has always come naturally to me. I’ve loved my wife from the first night I tried to steal a kiss from her in the parking lot of a bar in Louisville. And ever since I sat in the laundry room of my mom’s tenement apartment building in Brooklyn reading old Gourmet magazines while the other kids were reading comic books, I’ve always wanted to be a cook.
It has taken me a lifetime to convince my mom that I wasn’t trying to make her miserable on purpose; I was just pursuing my dreams, which, unfortunately, looked very different from her idea of who I would become as a Korean man in America. To this day, I’ve pushed back against the assumptions of what a Korean man in America is supposed to be: an accountant, a model citizen, a meek human being. These are not negative stereotypes, and mostly they’re not believed out of malice. Yet they represent a crass oversimplification of a person whose identity is formed out of many years of experiences and choices.
I’m guilty of the same thing. I looked at Janice and Shirley Mae and assumed they were cooking the same things—because they were black, because they were women, because they cooked in Louisville. And though there are similarities between them, the differences are much more significant. Those differences define who they are and how they’ve made the choices they’ve made in their cuisine. Their two approaches to cornbread are not simply a variation in technique. They represent a rift in their upbringing: one rural and the other urban. I never would have made that distinction if I had not talked to them at length. I would simply have assumed that they made different cornbreads for reasons that were random. It took me a long time to understand that their choices in their cornbread recipes tell an intimate story of their past.
There was nothing terribly difficult or noble about my coming to this realization. I just took the time to get to know Janice and Shirley Mae. They made me realize that recipes can be an incredibly personal expression. A simple conversation about the origin of a recipe can lead to an entire afternoon talking about one’s childhood in Tennessee. There is nothing terribly difficult about making cornbread, either. I could give you Shirley Mae’s recipe in one paragraph. But you’d be missing the point. In fact, I’m not giving you Shirley Mae’s or Janice’s recipes—partly because they don’t translate easily into words. Each of them cooks from memory, and neither can stand following recipes. They would think it silly for me to even try to figure out the measurements. But don’t despair. You should try to figure out your own recipe. You’ve come this far with me, and I hope by now you understand that the best cooking is not about perfection, but rather the flawed process of how we aim for a desired flavor.
If you want to make cornbread, all you need is cornmeal, salt, a pinch of sugar, and some butter. You can use hot water, milk, or even a little oil if you want. Don’t put eggs in it, though. And don’t add too much refined flour. Mess around with the proportions, and you’ll come up with a mixture you like. That’s how I make cornbread at home. It comes out a little different each time, but that’s the fun of it.
I’ve been experimenting with cornbread for almost two decades, and I’ve only recently discovered a recipe I like, which I’m happy to share here. It’s a recipe I came up with while fooling around in the kitchen one day after I’d come back from having lunch with Janice. I was trying to re-create her pancake, and I forgot to add the leavening to a batch of dry ingredients. The result came out flat and crispy. In other words, it came out “wrong,” but I liked it. And I’ve been making it ever since. It’s not really cornbread. It’s more of a lace cookie. It’s unpredictable and sensitive to the weather. When it’s good, it’s amazing, and when it’s not, it tastes like rubber. I like it because it’s me. It is neither a bread nor a crispy cracker. It’s something in between, something hard to define. It is me. Rice flour is not traditional in cornbread, but I’m sure by now you understand that I don’t know what “traditional” even means.
Lacy Cornbread with Rhubarb Jam
Lacy cornbread gets its name from the holes that form when the wet cornmeal batter hits the hot fat in the skillet. It is a satisfying way to cook cornbread, though the result is more of a crisp or a cracker than it is bread. It is important to get the proportion of cornmeal to water just right so you get the holes and the lacy result. You may have to adjust the proportions, depending on the type of cornmeal you use. And the cooking technique is a bit tricky, so you will most likely not get it right on the first try. But once you do, this will become an easy recipe to make.
I like to snack on lacy cornbread with rhubarb jam served on the side. But these cornbread crisps are versatile. Top them with thinly sliced ham or pimento cheese, or any dip that you like.
Makes about 12 crisps
½ cup yellow cornmeal, sifted
2 tablespoons rice flour
¼ teaspoon salt
¾ cup water
1 cup rendered pork lard (you may need additional fat to cool the oil while frying)
Rhubarb Jam, for serving
In a medium bowl, combine the cornmeal, rice flour, salt, and water, stirring to blend. Set aside for 10 minutes to hydrate the cornmeal. Stir again before frying.
Set a cup of water next to the stove and have a teaspoon handy. Heat ¼ cup of the pork lard in a large skillet over medium-high heat until hot but not smoking. Slowly pour about 1 tablespoon of the batter into the pan and then pour 1 teaspoon water directly into the center of the batter. The batter should immediately begin to sizzle and form a lacy pattern. Cook for 3 minutes. Once the edges of the lace begin to turn golden brown, flip the crisp and cook for another minute. Drain on paper towels. Repeat with the remaining batter, adding more fat to the pan as necessary.
Serve very soon after cooking, with the rhubarb jam.
Rhubarb Jam | When rhubarb is in season in early summer, I make enough of this jam to get me through the fall. I love the fruity, tart, and earthy flavor of rhubarb. I add a little black pepper to give the jam a bit of spice to complement the sweetness. Makes about 2 cups
2 pounds rhubarb, trimmed and diced
1 pound fresh strawberries, hulled and diced
1 cup fresh orange juice
2½ cups sugar
1 teaspoon kosher salt
½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
Juice of 1 lemon
In a medium pot, combine the rhubarb, strawberries, orange juice, sugar, salt, pepper, vanilla, and lemon juice and bring to a slow simmer over low heat, stirring constantly. Cook for 20 to 25 minutes, stirring frequently, until the fruit has broken down.
Stir the jam vigorously with a wooden spoon to break up any remaining chunks. Transfer the jam to a medium bowl and let cool to room temperature.
Pour the jam into a jar, cover, and refrigerate overnight before using. The jam will keep in the fridge for at least a month.
Epilogue
I’ve tried in this book to give a voice to the people who seldom get one. I’ve tried to investigate cultures I didn’t know a lot about. I’ve tried to cook food I was previously unfamiliar with. Maybe cooking the food of others is appropriation; maybe it is learning. Often I ended up with more confusion and more questions than answers. A question such as “What is Nigerian food?” never has a simple answer. In fact, eve
n Nigerians will debate the answer endlessly. In the face of so many uncertainties, how can any of us be authorities on anything? It is disheartening at times, but it is also the reason I still yearn to learn and discover new cultures and foods I know are out there.
I believe in the power of stories. The people I met during the process of writing this book entrusted me with their stories. And I’ve tried to be respectful of their words as well as their craft. I’ve tried my best to show that their traditions are a part of an intricate lineage of American food that will only continue to grow more exciting as we all make our own connections to the foods that surround us. Our food reflects who we are as a people. And if my small journey is any indication of where we are as a culinary nation, then we are living through an incredible time in a beautiful place.
You have your own story and your own history and your own connections to make. There is good food to be discovered everywhere. All it takes are an adventurous palate and an inquisitive mind. You can link both to the foods that sit in your memories. It is amazing how the thread of connections leads somewhere, once you reach out and start pulling on it. Exploring these connections can take you to unexpected places and teach you stories that challenge your imagination. It can link two things together that you might not have thought belonged together—like buttermilk and graffiti. It is an adventure worth taking. It is a road worth exploring. It is a dish worth tasting.
Acknowledgments
This book was a new adventure for me in many ways. I could not have done any of it without the brilliant minds who surround me.
Dean Crawford, you are a true mentor and teacher and friend.
Judy Pray, thank you for allowing me to roam and travel and write.
Allison McGeehon, you are tireless in your mission to make me look good.
Lia Ronnen, I am so grateful to be a part of the Artisan family.
Kim Witherspoon, it was your wise words that made me take this plunge.
Ken Goodman, really, man, you take the best photos and eat the most fried chicken.
To all my restaurant folks who held it all together while I pursued my writing—thank you from the bottom of my heart.
To everyone I came across in the writing of this book, these pages belong to you. Thank you for making me laugh and cry. Thank you for sharing your time and stories and emotions and recipes. Thank you for admonishing me, yelling at me, teaching me, guiding me, and trusting me with your sacred wisdom.
Edward Lee is the author of Smoke & Pickles; chef/owner of 610 Magnolia, MilkWood, and Whiskey Dry in Louisville, Kentucky; and culinary director of Succotash in National Harbor, Maryland, and Penn Quarter, Washington, DC. He appears frequently in print and on television, including earning an Emmy nomination for his role in the Emmy Award–winning series The Mind of a Chef. Most recently, he wrote and hosted the feature documentary Fermented. He lives in Louisville and Washington, DC, and you can find him on Instagram and Twitter @chefedwardlee.
Also by Edward Lee
Smoke & Pickles
Copyright © 2018 by Edward Lee
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced—mechanically, electronically, or by any other means, including photocopying—without written permission of the publisher.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.
ISBN 9781579658519
Published by Artisan
A division of Workman Publishing Co., Inc.
225 Varick Street
New York, NY 10014-4381
artisanbooks.com
Artisan is a registered trademark of Workman Publishing Co., Inc.
Published simultaneously in Canada by Thomas Allen & Son, Limited
Jacket and interior design by Raphael Geroni
Jacket photograph by Ken Goodman
Maps appear courtesy of the following individuals and institutions. pp. vi, 45, 156, 192: New York Public Library Digital Collections; p. viii: U.S. Geological Survey; pp. 10, 84, 120: Shutterstock; p. 26: Lowell Historical Society; p. 64: City of Dearborn Heights Archive, c/o Dearborn Heights Libraries; pp. 101, 174, 270, 292: David Rumsey Map Collection (davidrumsey.com); p. 139: Alabama Department of Archives and History; p. 211: Geography and Map Division, Library of Congress; p. 229: Houston-Galveston Area Council; p. 249: University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee Libraries