According to Frank Stitt, this is Southern food. I will sooo take it.

I’m curious.  When you think of Alabama food, what comes to mind?

Southern classics, right? Fried chicken, stewed okra, black-eyed peas, grits, greens of every make and model… that kind of thing.

Or maybe you think of seafood. You know: shrimp, crab cakes, blackened catfish, hushpuppies.

That’s what I thought, too. And don’t get me wrong, all of those dishes are certainly over there — but I was completely unprepared for the produce. Good Lord, the produce.

On our first day at the house, I had just put The Boy down for his nap when I found Paul downstairs, simmering fresh corn on the stove. I wasn’t in the market for corn at that particular moment… In fact, as far as lunch was concerned, I’d already set my sights on Paul’s chicken salad, followed immediately by a nap of my own.

I was chewing my sandwich and contemplating the genius of olives in chicken salad when I overheard Marc tasting the corn:

(Munch, munch.) Wow. That’s sweet. (Munch.) Man, that’s the sweetest corn I’ve ever had.

I was tempted to try it, because if you know Marc, you know that hyperbole is not his thing. But my eyelids were drooping, and I was assured that we were having more corn with dinner, and besides, my eyelids… were… drooping…

The evening routine at the beach house generally involves getting the kids fed, bathed, and into bed – by hook or by crook – followed by cocktail hour while dinner is prepared. If we somehow manage to freshen up along the way, all the better. It’s ironic, you know: lunch is somehow just fine when mixed with sand, sunscreen, and salt water (not to mention giggles, floaties, and potty breaks), but for some reason, dinner tastes better after I’ve run through the shower and had a few moments to collect myself.

That first night, we had tuna sashimi with our cocktails, then sat down to pan-seared New England scallops, a beautiful Caprese salad, a bit of multi-grain bread, and, of course, the corn. Ahhh, that corn. Beautiful strands of pale yellow pearls, still warm from their brief dalliance in the stockpot. That first crispy bite was the best, when everything was new to the palate, and the sweetness was balanced by that distinctive corn flavor. Over time, the flavor gradually took a back seat and the sugar just kept coming, until, by the end of my typewriter impersonation, it was literally as sweet as candy. It was so good, it was stupid.

I asked Paul about the corn. It’s not Silver Queen, he said, it’s a different variety. I can’t quite recall the name, but it’s from a local farm.

How local is local?, I ask. B.J. Farms, near Elberta, he said. (Note to self: Find this corn.)

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A day or two later, Paul was on the deck downstairs, hacking off hunks of a watermelon and sharing it with the kids. Have some!, he said. It’s really good.

I’d better not, I answered. Watermelon is my singlular arch-enemy. After years of tasting, I can force it down if I must, but I really can’t stand the stuff.

I actually don’t like watermelon, either, said Paul, but this one is terrific. You have to try it. Have. To.

After assuring me that he wouldn’t be offended, I tasted a small piece. WOW. I had prepared myself for the gag reflex that was sure to follow, in which case I’d planned to take two quick steps and spit it over the edge of the pier (pah-TOO!), because hey, I’m just that classy… but instead, I asked for seconds. Let me repeat: I asked for more watermelon. As someone who consciously works on expanding her palate, this moment has its own chapter in my personal history.

I could go on and on about the produce… the farm fresh tomatoes, the strawberries, and in my next entry or two, I’m probably going to tell you more than you ever cared to know about Chilton County peaches. But I have to stop somewhere, and this is as good a place as any, because I still need to tell you about the cheese and ask you about the book I’d like to purchase…

Can you see the stripe of ash in the Perdido, on the top right?

It just so happens that there’s also a dairy farm in Elberta, which I remembered from last year. It’s called Sweet Home Farm, and I distinctly recall Paul serving their Perdido cheese all those months ago. Perdido is hard to forget, you see, because it has a dark vein of ash running through it. The first time I saw it, Paul saw me hesitate at the cheese board, mini-spreader-knife-thingy hovering in mid-air, brows furrowed. It’s ash, he said, like Morbier. I do believe that “Huh?” was my ever-intelligent reply. Turns out there’s a whole class of French cheeses made with ash in them, on them, around them, whatever. Crazy, right? The things you learn on summer vacation.

Well, the cheese was delicious, of course, and I wanted more this year, of course. So one rainy afternoon, Matt, The Boy, and I set out for Elberta, in search of candy corn, miracle melon, and ashy cheese.

The nice folks at B.J.’s informed us that the variety of corn is called, fittingly, Devotion. The watermelon’s name is Sangria, which immediately resulted in a continuous loop of Jerry Jeff Walker songs in my head. And Sweet Home Farm was a delight — it was exactly the kind of picturesque place you would imagine a mom-and-pop dairy farm in small-town Alabama to be. I picked up some Peridido as well as some Bayside Blue, and it did not disappoint. What a way to shop for groceries!

Which brings me to the kooky book idea I have. When we travel with a group, I think it’s a blast to stay in a place with a real kitchen. Actually, that’s one of the many reasons I have enjoyed the beach house so much: the kitchen is way bigger and much better equipped than my own. But without Paul there, I would have had no idea that Joe Patti’s is the best seafood market on the Gulf Coast, or not to even bother with a supermarket other than Publix – not to mention B.J.’s and Sweet Home Farm.

Restaurant guides are a dime a dozen, but are there any travel books devoted to helping cooks find ingredients? I’m imagining a directory of local farms, markets, dairies, wineries, with write-ups on the highlights and specialties of each. If anyone knows of one, I’d sure like to buy a copy.  Anyone?

Anyone?

Bueller?

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Between this year and last, I’ve learned a lot about food at the beach house – including being introduced to Frank Stitt’s cookbook, Southern Table.  The farm fresh tomatoes we had there, along with all of us being seafood lovers, inspired me to make his tomato and crab towers. We enjoyed them so much that I’m hoping to make a pilgrimage to Stitt’s Highlands Bar and Grill one day.

Tomato and Crab Towers
From Frank Stitt’s Southern Table

3 large ripe tomatoes, cut into 1/3-inch slices
8 cherry or grape tomatoes, quartered
1 shallot, very finely sliced
1/2 cup Sherry vinaigrette
Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper
1/2 pound jumbo lump crabmeat, picked free of shells and cartilage
Grated zest and juice of 1/2 lemon
2 tablespoons mayonnaise, such as Hellman’s or Best Foods
4 chives, finely sliced
6 basil leaves, thinly slivered
A large handful of micro-greens, watercress, mâche, or arugula, trimmed if necessary, washed and dried

You will need a total of 12 slices of tomato for the towers: 4 large ones for the bottom, 4 slightly smaller ones for the middle layer, and 4 slightly smaller ones for the top. Set these aside, and reserve the remaining slices for another use.

Combine the 12 tomato slices, cherry tomatoes, and the shallot in a bowl and toss with the vinaigrette and a pinch each of salt and pepper.

In another bowl, combine the crabmeat, lemon zest and juice, mayonnaise, chives, and basil, mixing with your fingers but being careful not to break up the larger lumps of crabmeat.

Arrange the 4 largest tomato slices on four plates. Top each with a dollop of crabmeat, spreading it with the back of a spoon to almost cover the tomato. Place 4 slightly smaller tomato slices on top and gently steady them so they are stable. Top with the remaining crabmeat and then with the last tomato slices. Scatter the cherry tomatoes around the towers. Toss the baby lettuces in the vinaigrette remaining in the tomato bowl and sprinkle them around the outside of the plates.

Ask a talented friend to set a gorgeous table. Add plated towers. Stand back admiringly, take a photograph, then dig in.