by Pat Conroy
On the day of her wedding, the bridesmaids and friends arrived in sets. First came Molly Malloy Bebe Allen, Erin Bradley, and Anna Kramer, all of whom had gone to school with Megan at Paideia School in Atlanta, the last place in America to send a girl to be taught as a traditional Southern girl. The next group was composed of her college friends from Colorado: Julie Lindsay, Katie Gjorolina, Kristin Pierce, Alex DeNeva, and Jenny Hatifield, the radiant young women who had collaborated in Megan’s noble quest to be “the biggest party animal in the history of the University of Colorado.” Yet another group was made up of family, the sisters of the bride and groom. The prettiest women in the state of South Carolina had gathered under my roof to honor my daughter, and I was moved by the sight of such beauty and freshness and devotion to her. My gift to Megan was that I would prepare the traditional bridesmaids’ lunch.
I had selected the menu with the help of both my wife, Sandra, and my cookbook partner, Suzanne. It was tomato season in Beaufort, and there is nothing in the world that tastes as good as a Beaufort tomato picked fresh from Dempsey’s Farm on Highway 21. I sliced up a platter full and spread them like a deck of cards, then anointed them with a splash of extra virgin olive oil from Lucca. (Ever tasted Southern olive oil?) Then I threw a handful of basil from our garden over it. I fixed a chilled cucumber soup with fresh dill, then made a squash casserole and a salad with a dressing I had first tasted in a Charleston mansion. The main course was a swordfish salad that I had eaten at Suzanne’s house at a dinner party the year before, and I shamelessly stole Suzanne’s recipe. The dessert was the part of the meal that meant the most to me. I made Sandra’s mother’s famous pound cake to honor a woman who had died five years before Sandra and I met. In honor of Pat King, I used her recipe and made a cake that will help her memory live on and that validated her fame as a nonpareil Southern cook. I served the pound cake with fresh peaches and whipped cream, and it was sublime. My daughter rose and toasted me for preparing the finest bridesmaids’ lunch any of them had ever tasted. She said it was the only one ever fixed by the father of the bride that they knew of, and I bowed deeply from the kitchen.
The weather turned cool for June, and Megan’s wedding was out of a storybook. She and Terry exchanged vows that are ancient and important and moving every time I hear them (or take them). But there is one metaphor of that weekend that I hold dear and priceless. It makes me laugh every time I see it. When the photographs of the traditional Southern wedding came back, I looked at the first photograph and thought, This is what my entire life has been like. This photograph could tell everything about the chaos and dissonance and breakdown of all order and serenity or fealty to custom in my squirrelly life. In the photograph is my handsome son-in-law, Terry, in his tuxedo. His arm is behind Megan, the beautiful bride, looking ravishing in her billion-dollar wedding dress. But what makes this photograph Conroyesque in the extreme is the presence of the sweet-faced Molly Jean Giguire, my one-year-old granddaughter, who is riding on her mother’s hip, barefooted and enjoying every single moment of her mother’s traditional Southern wedding.
CUCUMBER SOUP The ripening of the tomato and cucumber fields is one of the clearest augurs of summer’s arrival in Beaufort. I like to make cucumber soup with Beaufort cucumbers because it gives me the false sensation of a deep connection with the Low Country. Since most of you will have no access to Beaufort cucumbers, we include the hothouse variety in the recipe. There are many variations of this recipe, most of them delicious.
In Mobile, Alabama, Eugene Walter once fixed me his version, which included fresh-picked strawberries, a combination that sounded revolting to me. But it was cool and refreshing, and even exciting, as he said it would be. I’ve made this soup with buttermilk, whole milk, skim milk, and heavy cream. The fresh dill is the essential ingredient.
In New York City, I once ordered cucumber soup at the restaurant of the impeccable chef Daniel Boulud. He garnished it with smoked fresh trout, quail eggs (I think), and tomatoes, but he almost ruined it with the subtle addition of cilantro, Satan’s own herb. I do not know why I react so strongly to cilantro (which often travels under the equally unsavory alias of coriander), but its addition made it seem as though Monsieur Boulud had thrown a bar of soap into his soup. My aversion to cilantro is so well established that I had a wonderful visit to Bangkok having learned to say only these three words: “No pai chi.”
• SERVES 6 AS A FIRST COURSE
3 seedless cucumbers
1 small jalapeño chile, halved, seeded, and chopped
2 shallots, coarsely chopped
¼ cup plain yogurt (not nonfat)
½ teaspoon coarse or kosher salt, or to taste
Finely chopped fresh dill
Sour cream
1. Peel and halve the cucumbers lengthwise. Use the tip of a teaspoon to scoop out the seeds. (This variety typically has very few.) Cut the cucumbers into small pieces and place in the bowl of a food processor fitted with a metal blade.
2. Add the jalapeño and shallots and process until the mixture is as smooth as possible, about 2 minutes. Pour the mixture into a bowl and stir in the yogurt. Add the salt (you may need more than ½ teaspoon).
3. Pour into a storage container and chill in the refrigerator for up to 2 hours. Chill six serving bowls.
Ladle the cold soup into chilled bowls and sprinkle with dill. Garnish each serving with a small dollop of sour cream.
SWORDFISH SALAD Swordfish salad is an elegant, forgiving recipe that can be made ahead of time. It is easy, and there are only three indispensable rules for success: don’t overcook the pasta, don’t overcook the swordfish, and don’t burn the pine nuts. I chose it for the bridesmaids’ lunch because I was frankly overwhelmed by all the details of Megan’s wedding.
I hired my old friend Butch Polk to put on an old-fashioned outdoor barbecue the night before the bridesmaids’ luncheon. Since the groom, Terry Giguire, and his family came from California, I thought they deserved a taste of the Old South. In the middle of the barbecue, a ten-foot alligator, who lives in the lagoon behind our place, made his evening run past our house. To this day the Californians think I hired that alligator for the pure shock value it gave to my new West Coast relatives.
• SERVES 6
1 pound spaghetti
1½ pounds swordfish steaks (¼ to 1 inch thick)
½ cup fresh lemon juice (about 2 lemons)
¼ cup olive oil
1 cup pitted and sliced green olives
½ cup toasted pine nuts
Herb mayonnaise*
Coarse or kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper
Fresh marjoram and tarragon sprigs
1. Preheat the broiler.
2. Cook the pasta according to package directions until al dente. Drain in a colander, but do not rinse.
3. Brush the swordfish steaks lightly with lemon juice (use only half the amount) and broil about 6 inches from heat source until lightly browned, turning once, a total of 6 to 8 minutes. (The second side always takes less time than the first.)
4. Cool the fish to room temperature and cut into bite-size pieces.
5. Transfer the drained spaghetti to a large mixing bowl and toss with the remaining lemon juice (at least ¼cup) and the olive oil. Gently fold in the fish, olives, and pine nuts.
6. Add the mayonnaise sparingly and toss until salad is covered but not drenched with dressing.
7. Refrigerate until the flavors marry, about 2 hours.
8. Season the salad with salt and pepper to taste, transfer to a serving platter, and garnish with herb sprigs.
SQUASH CASSEROLE I have been looking for an opening to praise fresh mozzarella, as opposed to that tasteless, hardened glop we Americans have used to ruin perfectly good pizzas. With this single squash casserole, which is a breeze to make, I seize my opportunity.
The Ruggieri brothers’ shop on the Campo de’ Fiori was my favorite place to buy food in Rome. It was the youngest of the brothers who introduced me to mozzarella
di bufala, made from the delicious milk of water buffalo that graze the pastures of Campania. The cheese was silken and bone white and freshly made. I had never seen cheese that came packed in water, but this cheese is perishable and needs to be eaten soon after it is made. It is a sweet, delicate cheese with a slight tartness in the after taste. I have found it in gourmet cheese shops in New York and California, and American cheesemakers are making gallant attempts to make a fresh mozzarella of their own. If you are ever in Italy, order a Caprese salad: slices of mozzarella di bufala, fresh ruby-red tomatoes, julienned basil leaves—all anointed with extra virgin olive oil. You will not eat a better meal in your life. • SERVES 6
1 large red onion, chopped
1 garlic clove, minced
¼ cup diced country ham
1½ pounds zucchini
½ pound fresh mozzarella (or mozzarella di bufala), cubed
½ teaspoon red pepper flakes
1 to 2 teaspoons chopped fresh rosemary or thyme
½ cup homemade fresh or dry bread crumbs
1. Preheat the oven to 350°F.
2. In a nonstick medium sauté pan over medium heat, sauté the onion and garlic until wilted and lightly browned. Stir in the ham and cook briefly, about 2 minutes.
3. While onion is sautéing, clean and trim the zucchini and cut into ¼-inch pieces. Transfer zucchini to a mixing bowl. Add the mozzarella, red pepper flakes, and rosemary. Stir in the warm onion and ham mixture.
4. Transfer the vegetable mixture to a casserole and sprinkle the bread crumbs on top.
5. Bake until the bread crumbs are browned and the casserole is bubbling slightly around the edges, 45 to 50 minutes. Serve hot.
SANDRA’S MAMA’S POUND CAKE I have lived a life of many regrets, things I’ve said that I shouldn’t have said, things I have written that caused grief to people I loved, women I should have married, women I shouldn’t have married, friends I should have pursued, and friends whose aura was so dangerous I should have sprinted away from them after our first handshake. But I ache when I realize that my current wife’s mother, Pat King, died a full five years before I fell in love with her daughter. I hear the stories whenever the rowdy King tribe gathers at the peanut farm in Pinckard, Alabama, where Sandra’s father, Elton (Tony), still lives and prospers and fishes every day of his life for bass and catfish.
Pat King was a legendary Southern cook and, to hear her three daughters tell it, a package of kinetic movement who could do everything well except sit still. Her grandsons talk about her Christmas and Easter feasts as if James Beard and Alice Waters had flown into Pinckard to cook them. While at the farm, sadly exiled among Alabama football fanatics, all of whom look and act like extras in the film version of James Dickey’s Deliverance, I enjoy the endless discussions of Pat King’s wizardry in the kitchen. Sandra herself is a marvelous cook, but even she agrees that she could not hold a frying pan to her mother’s natural gifts. I’ve met no one in Alabama who says they ever met a finer cook than the sweet-faced Pat King.
So, in honor of my daughter Megan, and in honor of my beloved wife, I made Pat King’s famous pound cake to cap off the bridesmaids’ luncheon with a bang. There is one secret that I carry around with me about Pat King: she might have been a superb cook, but she was much better at raising daughters.
¾ pound (3 sticks) butter, softened
3 cups sugar
8 large eggs, at room temperature
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
3 cups cake flour, sifted twice
Sliced fresh peaches
Whipped cream
1. In preparation, turn a large tube pan upside down; place a piece of wax paper over the bottom and trace the outline. Cut the paper to fit, including a hole for the center tube, then invert the pan and put the wax paper in the bottom. Lightly grease the paper as well as the sides and the center tube of the pan with pure vegetable oil, then dust with flour, shaking out the excess. This method will ensure that the cake can be removed without falling apart. Preheat the oven to 325°F.
2. With an electric mixer on medium speed, beat the butter and sugar until light and fluffy. Add the eggs one at a time, beating well after each, then stir in the vanilla. With a spatula, stir in the flour until thoroughly mixed into the batter, but do not beat, which will cause the cake to be tough. Spoon the batter into the prepared pan, smoothing the top lightly with a spatula so cake will bake evenly.
3. Bake for 1 hour, then check appearance, since ovens vary. Normally it takes 1¼ hours. (My mama checked for doneness with one of the clean, slender broom straws she kept for this task; lacking this, a toothpick or bamboo skewer will do.) Let cake rest in the pan on a rack for 10 minutes. To remove the cake from the pan, place a rack over the top, invert, and carefully lift the pan off the cake. Do not shake or force the cake out. If it does not immediately loosen, turn it back over and let it cool for another 5 minutes before trying again. Let cool thoroughly on a rack before slicing, if you can stand to wait. This makes a large and showy, picture-perfect cake.
4. Serve thin slices (it’s very rich) with sliced peaches and whipped cream.
*To prepare an herb mayonnaise, flavor 1 cup Homemade Mayonnaise (page 57) with 2 tablespoons chopped capers and 1 tablespoon each finely chopped fresh parsley and tarragon. If fresh tarragon is not available, do not substitute dried tarragon. Use whatever fresh herb you can find, such as basil in the summer or thyme in the winter.
Southern grief at a funeral of a loved one often gets mollified by the scrumptious feast that follows the ceremony. In the South, you often eat as well after the burial of a family member or friend as you do on Thanksgiving Day or Christmas. It is the custom of the place for friends to bring a dish of delicious food to the home of the deceased—it is one of the binding social covenants that still survive in even the most estranged and disconnected enclaves of the South.
Cooking food for a grieving family and their friends is still one of the classiest ways to send a love note that I can think of. I still get teary-eyed and grateful when I think of the sheer amount and quality of the food that the people of Beaufort and Fripp Island, South Carolina, sent to my house after the deaths of my mother and father. Such generous responses tie you to some places of the earth forever. My family was overwhelmed by the kindness of the neighbors who had loved our parents. They cared for us, fed us wonderfully well, comforted us, and eased the grief of our parents’ passing with astonishing grace.
When I lived in Atlanta during the seventies and eighties I developed a signature dish I would deliver to the houses of friends or loved ones on the night before a funeral. I would fix a half-gallon jar of pickled shrimp from a recipe I had brought from the Low Country for special occasions. I missed the Low Country the whole time I lived in Atlanta, and the taste of pickled shrimp was a sure way for me to engage in time travel without leaving the city limits.
When Olive Ann Burns’s husband, Andy Sparks, died after a long illness, I brought over the jar full of pickled shrimp, and the author of Cold Sassy Tree made me give her the recipe before I left her house that night. I happened to know that Olive Ann had adored her husband and was brokenhearted at his death, but talking about food at a funeral is one of the ways we start to heal ourselves. When the novelist Paul Darcy Boles died a few years earlier, I made the pickled shrimp at the same time I worked on his eulogy. Pickled shrimp is my answer to death in Georgia. In South Carolina, I generally respond with a shy and unexpected gift of Dunbar Macaroni, the only dish in my repertoire whose origins spring from the singular and comely borders of Newberry South Carolina. I have never tasted or seen a recipe for Dunbar Macaroni outside of Newberry. It is indigenous to the town and part of its history.
In 1962, I was playing the first baseball game of the season with Beaufort High School. The boy who sat next to me in Gene Norris’s English class was Randy Randel, the son of the school superintendent. Randy was a superb athlete and a delight in the classroom: mouthy, irreverent, and extroverted.
M
r. Norris would get exasperated with Randy and say, “Sit down in your seat, Randy, you fool. And hush your mouth, boy.”
“Norris,” Randy would say sadly, “don’t forget who my father is, Norris. Your job’s hanging by a thread, Gene. One word from me and you’re in the unemployment line.”
“Don’t you dare call me Gene, you little scalawag,” Mr. Norris would say. “How dare you threaten me with my job.”
“No threat, Gene,” Randy would say, grinning at the class. “I’m talking fact here, son.”
Randy had asked me to go golfing with him on Easter weekend when his parents were returning to his grandmother’s house in Newberry. Since I was a military brat, I had never gone to anyone’s house for a whole weekend in my life. My high school years had been excruciatingly lonely ones. My mother was thrilled that Randy had extended this invitation and gave me permission to go immediately.
Randy was six feet four inches tall and fifteen years old, and he was the best pitcher we had on the team that year. But our coach started Jimmy Melvin, a lanky junior who was hit hard by the visiting Wade Hampton team in the first inning. (Jimmy Melvin’s name is now enshrined on the wall of black marble honoring the Vietnam veterans killed in action during that long, dispiriting war.) The coach replaced Jimmy with Bruce Harper, who had a fastball I was afraid of, but Bruce was wild that afternoon. Soon the coach had Randy warming up in what passed for a bullpen at Beaufort High School. (Bruce Harper would walk out of the history of that game and into the history of his time—he would serve with distinction as one of John Ehrlichman’s lawyers during the Watergate trials.)
