Hot tamales and Kool-Aid pickles. This may not have been the most nutritious or well balanced lunch, but it was six ways to delicious and — more than anything — it gave a true sense of place.

That place was Clarksdale, Miss., and the occasion was a daylong retreat for food writers who had attended the Association of Food Journalists annual conference in Memphis, about an hour to the north.

The excursion was organized by Susan Puckett, the former longtime food editor of The Atlanta Journal-Constitution, who has written the definitive guide to and meditation on the foodways of the Mississippi Delta, “Eat Drink Delta” (University of Georgia Press). This Mississippi native has a special love for the distinctive culture of the Delta, and she has traveled its roads as much as any blues pilgrim, stopping in every old-timey restaurant, getting invitations into home kitchens, and chronicling every bite.

After a dinner presented by Oxbow restaurant downtown (which featured locally made beer, vodka and ice cream); after a late evening of smoking blues at two different juke joints; after a Bloody Mary and ham biscuit brunch the next morning; after discussion of the crossroads where legendary bluesman Robert Johnson made his pact with the Devil; and after a walking tour of haunts associated with former resident Tennessee Williams, Puckett assembled the crowd for hot tamales and Kool-Aid pickles.

First, demonstrations.

Jerry McCray Sr., whose son operates Dreamboat BBQ & Tamales, demonstrated the family recipe. Delta tamales, unlike traditional Mexican ones, are so small and thin that you order them by the string-tied bundle.

“Most folks put three to a bundle, but I like to give four,” McCray said. “That’s the little special thing I do.”

He soaks the corn husks in several changes of hot water to remove every bit of dirt and dried silk and then trims them until they’re no wider than the width of his hand. The cornmeal masa coating (which he calls the “spread”) needs to be so thinly applied that he uses a putty knife. Unlike Mexican tamale masa, it is highly seasoned, with enough chile powder that it looks a dusty red. The filling contains cooked ground beef mixed into a much thinner cornmeal batter. He forms logs of the filling in his hand, like a sushi chef forming rice.

McCray rolls the tamales, bundles them in fours, and sets the bundles upright in a pot. He adds enough water to go about halfway up the sides of the tamales. By the time the tamales finish steaming under the lid, the water will be red and oily — and all the better to use for the second batch.

Puckett said the exact natural history of the Delta-style tamale has never been reconstructed by food historians. In “Eat Drink Delta,” she writes:

“One popular explanation is that African-American sharecroppers got their first taste from Mexican migrant workers who came up through Texas and Arkansas to work the cotton harvest around the turn of the century. The corn husks would have kept those savory fillings warm and steamy in a lunch pail — an appealing contrast to the cold sweet potato or cornbread wedge to which the Delta natives were more accustomed.”

After McCray finished, Detective Charles Sledge of the Clarksdale Police Department took over the demonstration counter and unpacked a large jar of Mt. Olive dill pickles, two packages of tropical punch-flavored Kool-Aid and a bag of Dixie Crystals sugar.

The Kool-Aid pickle, or Koolickle, is a staple of convenience store shelves throughout the Delta, along with pickled pigs feet and pickled eggs. Puckett explained that kids from poor black neighborhoods in the Delta have long combined pickles and Kool-Aid. A similar local treat involves a pickle impaled with a peppermint stick.

Sledge runs a small food concession stand in town to earn extra cash, and he also prepares tamales and barbecue. A half pickle goes for 50 cents.

He carefully removed the pickles from the brine and cut them in half lengthwise. Into the jar went both packets of Kool-Aid and two cups of sugar. He removed just enough of the juice to make room for the pickles, and back in they went. After a week in the fridge they will turn as red as a Twizzler and as sweet as the sweetest tea. They’ll be ready.

Finally, it was time to eat. In addition to Jerry McCray’s tamales, there were a half dozen others to try from nearby restaurants, takeout stands and homes. But Dreamboat Jerry’s are the best. They’re the most tender, the ones with the sneakiest spice, and they have the most luscious meat filling.

Around me, food writers were taking dainty bites of their bright red pickles, saying, “That’s interesting …” and pushing them aside.

I loved my first sweet bite. I loved my second. I turned to my friend sitting next to me who had pushed her pickle aside and asked, “Are you going to eat that?”

Maybe the sense of place got to me. Maybe you had to be there. But on that Mississippi afternoon, hot tamales and Kool-Aid pickles made for the perfect lunch.