It’s appropriate to say that the basic foundation of this cookbook can be traced back over a decade to a much more limited book I wrote on my mother’s Southern kitchen. It’s also only fair to reveal that this cookbook was not really my idea but that of one of my editors—a Yankee, no less. Things came to a head a couple of years back when, having devoted an entire chapter of a book of collected food essays to such topics as Southern pig, grits, okra, and Brunswick stew, I exclaimed one day, in my typically florid and shameless way, “I’ve come to the definite conclusion that Southern cooking is not only the one legitimate cuisine in this country but that what I’ve written about so far is just the tip of the iceberg.” And to reinforce my stern conviction, I had to add, “As far as I’m concerned, Southern cookery is right there on the same level with French cuisine bourgeoise and Italian cucina casereccia—the sacred traditions, the incredible variety of regional dishes, the prevalence of fresh local ingredients, the distinctive cooking techniques, everything.”
