• Shrimp and grits: A ghost story

    by Judith Newton

    “Cuisine is the tactile connection we have to breathing history.”
    Clifford Wright, A Mediterranean Feast

    I sat with my daughter, Anna, and my husband, Bill, in the Rosebud Restaurant in Atlanta (the city where my daughter is doing graduate work in Public Health). It was not my first time in Atlanta, and, once again, it did not feel like what I imagined the “South” to be. The center of the city was a forest of skyscrapers; trendy neighborhoods buzzed with young professionals, and the residential streets were thick with dogwoods and shady sycamores that reminded me of suburban Philadelphia where I’d once lived. I never heard a drawl.

    We were preparing to “go South,” however, on a three day visit to Savannah, and I was initiating this journey from Atlanta with a traditional Southern meal—Shrimp and Grits. I was expecting to like the shrimp and to find the grits bland and under-salted, but what I got was a mouthful of rich and spicy. The grits were infused with andouille sausages and caramelized onions, tomatoes, half and half, and plenty of herbs. The flavors would haunt me for the rest of the trip. Being from California, however, I assumed that this version of Shrimp and Grits could not be traditionally “Southern,” that it must be some modern fusion cuisine instead.

    In contrast to Atlanta, Savannah struck me as “the South,” which, I realized, meant “Old South” to me. The historical sections of the city were devoted to Victorian houses or to colonial clapboards, and the two sections were joined by densely shaded public squares—plashing fountains, historical statues, and oaks, romantically draped with Spanish moss.

    It was Monday when we arrived, but it felt like Sunday, and it would feel like Sunday for the next three days. Knots of tourists strolled by with their guides or rode slowly through the streets in buses. The few who did seem to be natives of Savannah were sauntering too. “Slovannah,” our guide would call it when I asked her the next day why Savannah seemed to run on Sunday time. We’d learn that Savannah was, and still is, a bustling seaport, but there were few signs of that along the historical section of the Savannah river. The ships and cranes we saw in the distance seemed to be part of some other world.

    Many tours in Savannah are devoted to ghosts. We had decided against the spectral, wanting a more “historical experience,” but the ghosts found us nonetheless. The house we rented was on the tourist “ghost circuit.” The owner had hung the windows upside down, our guide book told us, to keep out spirits. I ambled into random stores along the harbor finding myself face to face with books entitled Haunted Savannah, Savannah Specters, Ghosts on the Coast, Georgia Ghosts, and my personal favorite, Ghost Cats of the South. While visiting the gift shop of one of Savannah’s historic houses, I noticed a basket of fuzzy orange and white felines. “Davenport House Ghost Cat” the sign read.

    The next day I asked our guide,

    “Why are there so many ghosts in Savannah culture?”

    “Because Savannah’s haunted,” she said straight-faced. I lifted my eyebrows.

    “Because we like to drink a lot and tell stories.”

    Later, having seen Shrimp and Grits on several menus, I asked her how grits had entered into Southern cuisine.

    “Honestly,” she said, “I don’t know. You just eat the danged things.”

    Savannah did feel haunted. Not by ghosts precisely, but by the presence in my imagination of what we didn’t see. I had read John Berendt’s Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, and felt phantom traces of the eccentric characters it had described—the man who rambled about town with flies circling around his head (they were attached by threads); the man who walked a dog that had died long ago, and Lady Chablis, the flashy black transgendered entertainer who reportedly still worked somewhere in the club scene.

    Most of all, Savannah seemed haunted by slavery, the history of which was strangely invisible in a city whose proximity to the Atlantic and to navigable rivers had made it a major port for the eighteenth-century slave trade. There was one sculpture of a slave family near the riverside, and our guide, whom we’d peppered with slave-related questions, took us to some large brick storage rooms where she believed slaves were once held. But there were no historical markers to inform us of that or to identify a building on the corner of the New City Market Plaza, where, according to our guide, slaves were once auctioned.

    The day after our tour, at our guide’s suggestion, we visited the Owens-Thomas House, which had the only preserved slave quarters open to the public in Savannah. The ceiling of the downstairs room retained some of its original blue paint. “Haint blue,” the docent told us, a color meant to ward off spirits. One source of Savannah’s obsession with ghosts was clearly the culture of its West African slaves.

    In this gift shop I found a copy of Plantation Row: Slave Cabin Cooking: the Roots of Soul Food, which mentioned that slave rations included corn and that some dishes made from Indian corn were similar to those that had been made in West Africa. Grits were often made from Indian corn. The slave recipe for “Sawsidge” was very similar to the recipe for the andouille version. And, later, I would learn that the cuisine of Gullah Geechee freed slaves (who lived on the islands near Savannah) included a good deal of Georgia shrimp. That spicy Shrimp and Grits I’d fallen for, far from being a recently minted cuisine, had had deep roots in slave cultures of the past. What had seemed “new” to me in Atlanta was in fact old. What had seemed hidden in Savannah haunted its menus.

    I’ve tried to understand what to make of this experience. That, despite my historical knowledge, I had not known how to read the cultures of the South? That parts of the South had suppressed unsavory histories? That the black slaves who had been regarded as “other” by white Southerners had deeply shaped Southern identity and culture? That food had brought me into “tactile connection” with a “breathing history?” In ways I didn’t expect, Shrimp and Grits had haunted me, had taken me “South.”

    Wild Georgia Shrimp and Grits – By Chef Ron Eyester, Rosebud Restaurant
    (Adapted from http://www.georgiaorganics.org/forEaters/recipes.aspx)

    4 T. unsalted butter, divided
    2 c. thinly sliced Vidalia onion (about 2 medium onions)
    1 ½ cups stone ground grits (Riverview Farms recommended)
    1 ¾ c half and half
    3 ½ c chicken broth, divided
    ½ tsp granulated garlic
    ½ tsp granulated sugar
    1 T finely chopped garlic
    1 c chopped andouille sausage (about 1/4 pound)
    1 14-oz can chopped San Marzano tomatoes
    ½ lb fresh Georgia shrimp, peeled and deveined
    ¼ c finely chopped assorted herbs (oregano, thyme, marjoram and parsley)
    Kosher salt and finely ground pepper

    1. In a large sauté pan, heat 2 T butter over medium heat and swirl to coat the bottom of the pan. Add onions and heat until they start to soften, about 5 minutes.
    2. Reduce heat and let the onions cook 20 minutes without stirring. If the onions start to brown, give them a quick stir and reduce the heat. After 20 minutes, stir the onions and continue to cook, stirring only occasionally, until the onions have caramelized. In a large saucepan, bring half and half and 2 c chicken broth to a boil. Slowly, whisk in grits and return to a boil.
    3. Reduce heat to a simmer and cook grits about 30 minutes over low heat, stirring often. If the grits become too thick, add a little half and half or broth. When grits are done they will be soft and creamy but a little al dente. Season the grits with granulated garlic, a pinch of sugar, and salt and pepper to taste.
    4. When grits are cooking, add the garlic to the caramelized onions and increase the heat to medium-high. Cook until garlic is fragrant, about 1 minute.
    5. Scrape onion mixture to the side of the pan and add sausage. Let sausage cook for 5-7 minutes, turning to brown on both sides.
    6. Add tomatoes and chicken broth and bring to a boil. Reduce the heat to a simmer. Allow mixture to reduce and thicken, about 10 minutes.
    7. Add shrimp; cook until just curled and opaque, about 4 minutes. Stir in the remaining 2 tablespoons of butter, herbs, and salt and pepper to taste.

    • I loved Savannah and you did have to search for anything about slavery but I remember walking around and feeling the souls of the slaves in places. Couldn’t explain it but just felt it. Felt the same way in other southern state were I saw the confederate flag flying proudly and parts of New Orleans before Katrina. Visiting old plantations and gator filled swamps in the heat of summer brought to mind cotton and tobacco fields with sweltering heat and the slaves doing their best to find time to sing the old spirituals and the passing down of history to preserve it for those of us who are here to witness.

      • BRAD

      • October 10, 2011 at 7:16 pm
      • Reply

      A poignant and uplifting story — a rich and vibrant culture, although invisible to many, lives on through the very food we consume. Faulkner with a gentle twist, as it were.

      • Marit

      • October 10, 2011 at 8:33 pm
      • Reply

      The south comes alive in this! I can feel the slowing down of life and the whispers of ghosts…and now have a hankering for grits.

      • Judy N

      • October 11, 2011 at 10:50 am
      • Reply

      Dear Madge, Glad to hear you had similar experiences. I wonder if it’s an outsider’s perspective that makes places like Savannah so resonant.

      Brad, Thanks for an elegant comment. I sound so good when you write about me.

      Marit, Please make the grits and tell me how they go.

      • Mardi

      • October 11, 2011 at 12:32 pm
      • Reply

      I am so glad that you talked about race and stereotypes and how they inform our lives even when we don’t think they do. Hardly anyone does this who’s white. I love it that you do.

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