Collards from Long Island, North Carolina
My parents moved to North Carolina from New York five years ago. To build their own house, live on the water, retire, and have their next adventure.
For a Jewish couple from Long Island, rural coastal Carolina is not as big a change as one might think. For one, they live in a plantation (read: suburban development) that is largely habitated by other Northerners. In their growing group of local friends, one is hard pressed to find a drawl. For real live locals, one must venture outside the plantation. To the Varnamtown docks to buy fresh-caught shrimp from an eighth generation Varnam, or to Holden Beach to buy local fish from Holden kin.
One of my mom's favorite stories involves a newly-minted culinary school daughter looking to make a shrimp bisque. Cut to Holden Beach, where I could always find mounds of just-caught shrimp, peeled and deveined. I came in seeking shrimp shells which I would use to prepare a stock for the bisque.
"Excuse me, sir, do you have any shrimp shells?"
"Shrimp whut?"
"Shells."
"You mean the pee-uhl?"
"Yessir."
"Whut you want what with the pee-uhl?"
"I'm making a bisque."
"A whut?"
And on and on. Eyes rolled, colleagues were called out from the back room. I got myself good and laughed at, but I walked out with bags of shrimp shells. Crazy Northerners, indeed.
There's another Holden-owned operation that I visit regularly: the Holden Brothers Farm Market. On this particular post-Thanksgiving journey, I was drawn to the collards. They had leaves as big as umbrellas attached to rigid stems, collected at the bottom in a natural bunch. There had an intoxicating vitality, a natural strength that made me swoon.
Collards do it for me. Yes, they are physically imposing, but my passion for them goes beyond the physical. Collards are something that southerners eat, southerners know, southerners write stories about. It's a bond. Collards and grits are to Southerners what schmaltz and gribines are to Jews. Collards are not something that little white Jewish girls from Long Island should be preparing, especially if you're going to throw a ham hock in the mix. Something about cooking collards just feels forbidden and sexy to me.
Which is why when I'm in the south, in my mothers kitchen, I always try to cook them.
At checkout, the girl who rang us up took a moment to wax nostalgic about her Thanksgiving dinner, just two days old. This was the first year that she was asked to cook the collards.
"Really. And how did you do it?"
"Well, I'll tell y'all, there was nothin' to it. I gave em a wash, and sep-rated em from the stems, course. Then I just threw em in a pot with some pi-ig. Some baycon, or maybe a ham hock. Anyway, I put em all in with a little water, and cooked them til they were du-un. Then I went in there with a knife, cut em all up like thi-yis, and put em out. Evry-one loved em."
So I followed her recipe, with a tweak or two, and it was collards I had. The beauty of real Southern-style collards is that you cook the holy hell out of them, for hours, until they break down and get real soft. Of course, the army green color would make my culinary school chefs' heads spin, but hey, it's authentic. It makes this fantastic green-brown broth that is a few parts collard cooking water, a few parts pig stock, and anything else you decide to put into the mix. Pot Likker they call it, and if you find yourself one day with a hitch in your giddy-up, give it a try. It'll get you vital real fast.
Holden Farmstand Collards
Created by The Wooden Spoon
Serves 4 to 6
2 big bunches of collards
1 ham hock
2 tablespoons cider vinegar, or hot pepper vinegar
water
pinches of salt, grindings of pepper
a big pot
a few hours
1. Give the collards a good rinse, and pull the leaves off the stems. You can do this in two ways; either cut the leaves off with a knife, or simply pull them off, separating from the stem.
2. Roll up the leaves as if you're rolling a cigarette, but don't worry about rolling them tight. Cut the collards into ribbons about 2-inches thick. Put the whole mess in a pot, with a ham hock, the vinegar, about 2 cups of water, and turn the heat to high. When the water comes to a boil, reduce the heat; cover and let simmer for as long as you like, stirring occasionally. In 20 to 30 minutes you'll have bright, crunchy greens, just fit for a northerner. In 2 to 3 hours, you'll have it southern style, soft, mushy, army-green. Keep an eye on the liquid; you don't want the pot to go dry.
3. Before serving, retrieve the ham hock from the pot and shred the meat into bite-sized fingers, using your fingers (if they're made of asbestos), or a knife (if they're not).
4. Serve with grits, pork chops, Carolina hot sauce, and a drawl.
For a Jewish couple from Long Island, rural coastal Carolina is not as big a change as one might think. For one, they live in a plantation (read: suburban development) that is largely habitated by other Northerners. In their growing group of local friends, one is hard pressed to find a drawl. For real live locals, one must venture outside the plantation. To the Varnamtown docks to buy fresh-caught shrimp from an eighth generation Varnam, or to Holden Beach to buy local fish from Holden kin.
One of my mom's favorite stories involves a newly-minted culinary school daughter looking to make a shrimp bisque. Cut to Holden Beach, where I could always find mounds of just-caught shrimp, peeled and deveined. I came in seeking shrimp shells which I would use to prepare a stock for the bisque.
"Excuse me, sir, do you have any shrimp shells?"
"Shrimp whut?"
"Shells."
"You mean the pee-uhl?"
"Yessir."
"Whut you want what with the pee-uhl?"
"I'm making a bisque."
"A whut?"
And on and on. Eyes rolled, colleagues were called out from the back room. I got myself good and laughed at, but I walked out with bags of shrimp shells. Crazy Northerners, indeed.
There's another Holden-owned operation that I visit regularly: the Holden Brothers Farm Market. On this particular post-Thanksgiving journey, I was drawn to the collards. They had leaves as big as umbrellas attached to rigid stems, collected at the bottom in a natural bunch. There had an intoxicating vitality, a natural strength that made me swoon.
Collards do it for me. Yes, they are physically imposing, but my passion for them goes beyond the physical. Collards are something that southerners eat, southerners know, southerners write stories about. It's a bond. Collards and grits are to Southerners what schmaltz and gribines are to Jews. Collards are not something that little white Jewish girls from Long Island should be preparing, especially if you're going to throw a ham hock in the mix. Something about cooking collards just feels forbidden and sexy to me.
Which is why when I'm in the south, in my mothers kitchen, I always try to cook them.
At checkout, the girl who rang us up took a moment to wax nostalgic about her Thanksgiving dinner, just two days old. This was the first year that she was asked to cook the collards.
"Really. And how did you do it?"
"Well, I'll tell y'all, there was nothin' to it. I gave em a wash, and sep-rated em from the stems, course. Then I just threw em in a pot with some pi-ig. Some baycon, or maybe a ham hock. Anyway, I put em all in with a little water, and cooked them til they were du-un. Then I went in there with a knife, cut em all up like thi-yis, and put em out. Evry-one loved em."
So I followed her recipe, with a tweak or two, and it was collards I had. The beauty of real Southern-style collards is that you cook the holy hell out of them, for hours, until they break down and get real soft. Of course, the army green color would make my culinary school chefs' heads spin, but hey, it's authentic. It makes this fantastic green-brown broth that is a few parts collard cooking water, a few parts pig stock, and anything else you decide to put into the mix. Pot Likker they call it, and if you find yourself one day with a hitch in your giddy-up, give it a try. It'll get you vital real fast.
Holden Farmstand Collards
Created by The Wooden Spoon
Serves 4 to 6
2 big bunches of collards
1 ham hock
2 tablespoons cider vinegar, or hot pepper vinegar
water
pinches of salt, grindings of pepper
a big pot
a few hours
1. Give the collards a good rinse, and pull the leaves off the stems. You can do this in two ways; either cut the leaves off with a knife, or simply pull them off, separating from the stem.
2. Roll up the leaves as if you're rolling a cigarette, but don't worry about rolling them tight. Cut the collards into ribbons about 2-inches thick. Put the whole mess in a pot, with a ham hock, the vinegar, about 2 cups of water, and turn the heat to high. When the water comes to a boil, reduce the heat; cover and let simmer for as long as you like, stirring occasionally. In 20 to 30 minutes you'll have bright, crunchy greens, just fit for a northerner. In 2 to 3 hours, you'll have it southern style, soft, mushy, army-green. Keep an eye on the liquid; you don't want the pot to go dry.
3. Before serving, retrieve the ham hock from the pot and shred the meat into bite-sized fingers, using your fingers (if they're made of asbestos), or a knife (if they're not).
4. Serve with grits, pork chops, Carolina hot sauce, and a drawl.
posted by Allison Fishman Task at 11:55 AM
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