Learning to eat like a native Southerner

However, this Cardinals Nation gal did say “we” when talking about the sorry state of the Atlanta Braves. “We’re not doing so well,” I said to my husband the other day. He called me on it. Yeah, well, shouldn’t we root for something down here in our new city?

So, you see, I am trying to assimilate. Especially when it comes to food. Lately, I’ve subjected myself to a lot of curious-to-me food combinations that a good handful of Southerners have grown up with.

Example: mayonnaise and bananas on white bread. It's Dale Earnhardt Jr.'s favorite. If Dale likes it, time for me to try it. We even whipped up a few of these sandwiches for the newsroom and passed samples around. Boy, did that get a bunch of folks waxing nostalgic. "It's just like I remember," they said. I can swallow a peanut butter and banana sandwich, but mayo and banana … I would not, could not — even with Duke's mayo.

Coke and salted peanuts is another one. Sweet and salty is a classic combination, but I’m having difficulty with the wet peanut part. It’s the same reason I remain unconvinced by boiled peanuts, even though I really want to like them. By the way, it took me three times to get the snack right. Initially, I thought you shoved unshelled peanuts into the Coca-Cola bottle. I also thought you were supposed to drink all the Coke first — with a straw — then fish out the peanuts from the empty bottle. How would I know you swig and chew at the same time? I’m not from here!

Let’s move on to pimento cheese. I can handle this caviar of the South as a swath on crackers. A swath, mind you, not a heaping spoonful and not straight out of the jar.

Souse! I learned about that one in the newsroom, too. It was while a colleague was creating a Southern food IQ test (I failed) to accompany a story about Southern boiled dressing (this below-the-Mason-Dixon condiment is right up my alley — success!). Anyway, souse. I'd never heard that culinary term before. Come to find out, it's a version of head cheese.

I purchased the highest quality souse I could find (thank you, Spotted Trotter). It’s not sold at Spotted Trotter under the name souse, though. Chef-owner Kevin Ouzts called it by a fancier name: pate gelee. And his version is fancy, too, as it’s made with shredded pork belly, bacon, a very concentrated pork stock, caramelized onion, pimento, mustard seeds and, of course, aspic. But let’s call it like it is: It’s meat jelly, a step above Spam. Were it served on a charcuterie plate, I’d probably eat up all the serrano ham first then go for the liver pate.

Now, I’m on a hunt for hummingbird cake. I think I’m going to like this dessert, especially upon hearing ecstatic groans from reporters and editors when I asked what it was. Someone even took time to hunt down and print out the Southern Living recipe for this pineapple-banana spice cake.

So, my little sciencey study of myself has ended up revealing a few things not just about me, but also about Southerners. Among the findings: Southerners have a passion for food that borders on obsession. I love it.

In the past 267 days, I’ve sometimes felt like an alien who landed on another planet. It’s a planet that overflows with Cheerwine. No one will ever go hungry, because Chick-fil-A is on every corner. It’s a planet that’s been around since, well, forever (because there are the cookbooks to prove it).

Anyone could be critical of my fledgling knowledge of Southern food culture. But that hasn’t happened. Instead, I’ve been invited to take a seat at the table and join in the highly animated conversation.

More than any region in the country, Southerners love to talk food, especially food with roots from here. That energy is addictive. It’s so addictive, in fact, that I’m stopping here, picking up the phone and calling some bakeries to track down a hummingbird cake.