Southern Comfort (15 page)

In a large saucepan, heat the oil over medium heat. Add the onion, garlic, red pepper flakes, rosemary, and bay leaf and cook for 3 minutes. Add the tomatoes, salt, sugar, and pepper and cook until the tomatoes start to break down, an additional 3 minutes. Add the white wine, bring the mixture to a simmer, and cook for 2 minutes. Add the stock, bring back to a simmer, decrease the heat to low, and cook for 30 minutes.

Remove the herbs and puree the soup in a blender, in batches, until smooth. Before turning on the machine, be sure the lid is tightly secured and covered with a towel to prevent the hot mixture from escaping.

Serve immediately.

In a small saucepan over high heat, bring 4 cups of water to a boil. Add the black-eyed peas and bring to a simmer. Cook, skimming off the scum that forms on the surface as needed, until tender, about 30 minutes. Strain the peas and reserve.

In a small saucepan over high heat, bring 4 cups of water to a boil. Add the barley and bring to a simmer. Cook the barley until tender, about 20 minutes. Strain the cooked barley in a colander under cold water and rinse well. Reserve until needed.

In a large saucepan over high heat, heat the olive oil to the smoking point. Add the sliced mushrooms and cook, stirring frequently, until they are nicely brown and fragrant, about 1 minute. Add the carrots, shallots, and celery and sauté for another minute. Add the stock, soy sauce, salt, pepper, peas, and barley and cook over a slow simmer to let the flavors develop, about 10 minutes.

Finish the soup with the sliced green onions and serve.

G
ENERATIONS ON BOTH SIDES
of my family made their living by farming in central Mississippi and Louisiana. Some owned their land and others were sharecroppers. Cotton and soybeans were their money crops, and family gardens of vegetables and chickens fed the immediate family, kin, and close friends.

I grew up in West Monroe, but spent a lot of time in Winnsboro, the rural North Louisiana town where my father was from, and where my papaw Jack still had some land planted with corn. We often drove down a dusty road out to the “old place” where the small board-and-batten shack my dad grew up in still stood, mostly filled with corn husks.

The land on the other side of the road from the shack was mostly pine woods, but a clearing up front held troughs also full of corn. My papaw Jack, in his summertime straw cowboy hat, would yell out “come on UP” into the woods, and a herd of wild horses would come running. We were ready with pockets filled with sugar cubes that they would nuzzle out of the palms of our hands. My papaw named one pretty red-and-white painter horse Allison, after me.

Whenever I return to Winnsboro these days, I drive slowly along the highway with my windows down. The road is surrounded by soybean, cotton, and corn farms, which are dotted with rusted tractors and cotton gins, and not any different than when I was a kid. This feeling of knowing who I am and where I am from always comes over me on that highway and calms me. It also makes me understand why the dream of having my own garden (or farm) is never far away.