The Curious Sweetness of the Deep South (cont.)

It took a plate of fried fish to help me make peace with the South’s tumultuous history and rampant development—as well as with Southern cuisine. Despite some outstanding and unusual homemade preserves (scuppernong and pyracantha berry) and a delicious but controversial bowl of Brunswick stew made with a pig’s head, I was depressed by the pasty biscuits and bland gravy. It wasn’t until I ordered The Sea Captain’s Platter in working-class Carabelle that I was truly able to abandon my cholesterol paranoia and addiction to garlic and focus on the quality and quantity of southern deep-fried-ness, the freshness of fish and oil, the delicacy of individualized batters calibrated to enhance the various cooking and salinity properties of oyster, shrimp, mussels, grouper “fingers,” and cornmeal hushpuppies packed with fresh parsley and flecks of cheese. As I dunked my crusty hot tidbits in tartar sauce and ketchup I forgot about the stupidity of staying lean in a world of plenty. Then I went back to my room and had to lie down.

To enjoy the South is to surrender, I thought as I lay digesting on my bed. But surrender, I reminded myself, need not imply ignorance or turning a blind eye. On the contrary, the point of journeying to corners of the country or world called remote or even, more snobbishly, backward—is to see for one’s self how much there is to preserve and to recognize that the challenges of geographic and political transition are worth surmounting. Every cosmopolitan city and jewel-like tropical isle has historical specters they would rather conceal but the truly curious traveler can’t let herself be daunted by them. Rather, when confronted by ghosts of ages past— The Old Carabelle Hotel where I stayed has three—perhaps it’s better to spend a night in the haunted room in hopes of separating real fears from foolish bias. It might even be worth catching a glimpse of whatever ancient restless energy still has something pressing on its mind.

It was not until my last day in the south that I tasted Tupelo honey—a fellow writer poured a dollop of gold onto my breakfast plate. “The good stuff costs about eighteen dollars a bottle,” he told me. I could immediately taste why. Tupelo is one of the sweetest honeys, and to my palate contains a hint of umami—the meaty, earthy richness that gives a flavor depth and the power to lodge permanently in memory. This was the special flavor my great grandfather slathered on biscuits under murals of his pappy’s shipping empire—a flavor poured by the hand of the black nursemaid who lived behind the great house in a shack. In time, that nursemaid’s great grandchildren may grow up to own one of those new beachfront condominiums. The antique murals may one day be wallpapered over. But the flavor of Tupelo honey, and of the Old South, will remain: simultaneously delicate and rich and laced with unmistakable notes of sacrifice, pain and family pride. For an outsider such complicated sweetness is an acquired taste—but one I’m glad to have sampled, finally, for myself.

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