Hush puppies

Eastside Road, August 28, 2013—

WITHIN THE SMALL but fondly recalled repertoire of Good Things Mom Cooked, along with pineapple upside-down cake and floating island, what do I find but Hush Puppies. Hers were not Cajun, and were certainly innocent of remoulade — she stuck to tartar sauce made with bottled mayo and pickle relish. They were what I think of, since I met them earliest, as the classical version, authentically Floridean: the recipe came from Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings's novel Cross Creek,whose torn and lightly soiled dust-jacket I can still see in my mind's eye. I think I never got around to reading it.

We had lunch with a couple of acquaintances today at a place that opened a year or so ago in town, a New Orleans restaurant. I had half a muffaletta, a tiny bit too cheesy for me and on foccaccia I thought could have been a little less oily, but what the hell: ham, salami, mortadella, provolone, mozzarella, olive tapenade add up to a satisfaction whatever the proportions (within reason).

And, on the side, hush puppies. I'd never associated them with New Orleans before, but then I've never been there and no nothing about it. Our friends have and do, and assure me these are how it's done there: balls of the corn-meal bread, not sticks, nicely crumby, and served with a little bit of peppery-mustardy remoulade, that's what they call it, on the side.

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YOU SEE THEM on my plate up there in the photo, but these are the three we brought home with us, reheated. After that sandwich, all I wanted for dinner was a few slices of tomato and a handful of padrones I fried up the usual way, just olive oil and salt. Behind, raspberries from our garden — we'd already had enormous beignets, nice ones, at lunch…

Rosé of Syrah, Gustafson, 2011 (lunch); rosé, La Ferme Julien, 2012 (dinner).
As Gertrude says: a rosé is a rosé is a rosé

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