Bounty from the Fields, Woods, Hollers and Hills

We’ve been talking for the last couple of weeks about foods the land offers us like fresh greens.  How opportune that it’s open season on Dry Land Fish.  Okay, technically you can gather these wild mushrooms anytime of year, but the early spring  is the only time they pop out.  So the delicacy must at least be gathered at this time, if not enjoyed.

I kind of assumed that only mountain folk would even know about this delicacy – at least by that name – but surprisingly a Google search found a page full of results.  There are even songs entitled “Dry Land Fish” - The Kentucky Headhunters  assert “If a genie gave me a bottle , there’d be three things I’d wish Corn, greens and taters, and dry-land fish”.  John McCutcheon’s version even directs us to, “Midst the ash and elm and sycamore, Cast your sights to the forest floor, Where the old trees die and the roots are rotten, That’s where the dry land fish are gotten.”

The song says you can find the fish from March to May but I’ve never seen them after April. 

About a year ago I happened to meet Mr. Ralph Story of Spring City, Tennessee.  He is an avid mycophagist and shared the pictures I’m including today.  I’ll confess I had to look up that name – and I might not call many of my plateau neighbors by it because it might just get me in trouble.  Still, I admire those that can find this wild food in abundance and as you can see from the pictures, Mr. Story certainly can.

So are you wondering just what it is?  Dry Land Fish are formally known as Morel Mushrooms.  They are a famous delicacy that can sell in 2020 for about $80 per pound, if you can find them.  Did I mention they are rare, hard to find, grow in inaccessible places and defy cultivation?  The steep price begins to make sense, doesn’t it?

I would like to know why we call them fish – and can only imagine the name comes from either (or both) their texture and our method of cooking.

Like many of the more substantial mushrooms, Dry Land Fish have a firm and almost-creamy texture.  And we cooke ‘em just like fish.

Rolled in cornmeal, fried in a deep skillet of hot oil – they look like typical Southern food, in fact, they look like a mess of fish on the plate.  And they are a rich, filling food that certainly replaces meat in a meal.  You’ve gotta’ cook them good and done so that makes for a crunchy bite.  Seasoned only with salt and pepper, you can truly appreciate this gift from God.

Now this is probably not a food that will sustain you for long, if only because of its scarcity.  But if you can get it you’ll surely enjoy the experience.

Huntin’ and Cookin’ Creases

Spring is such a wonderful time of the year.  As the trees set on new leaves, early flowers bloom and grasses break through the ground, there is promise in the air.  After long, cold winter days the sun stays up longer, warming the soil as we make the first preparations for planting.

Creasy Plant - It may not be the prettiest picture, but things have been pretty muddy this spring.

A couple of years ago, I shared with you an article here which Callie Melton had written about sallet huntin’.  This is not a skill I possess, but one that I greatly admire.  I have long wanted to know which wild plants are edible – how much could you survive on just the fruits of the land?  Today, we have access to fresh fruits and vegetables from around the world through the whole year.  That wasn’t true on the mountain a few years back and Mrs. Melton said everyone was ready for something fresh and green when the first plants broke through.

Well, the Sallet mixture she talked about contained lots of different greens and as I said, I’m not skilled at finding all of that.  But there was one plant she named that I am familiar with – Creases.  She called them “creasy” and that seems to be the generally accepted name.  

When I saw some of them out along the fence row last week, I snatched them up.  Now I may have mentioned before that I don’t care for greens, although I’m very careful not to say I won’t  eat them, I just thank the good Lord that I don’t have to eat them.  However, as I said last week, I’m prepared to eat whatever that same Lord provides – especially in these uncertain times.  So I tried my hand at cooking these creases.

Turns out they were really good.

I might’ve expected the same, strong taste of mustard or turnip greens.  But that’s not what I got.  Cooked with a piece of smoked ham, parboiled then cooked in fresh water, they were fresh-tasting but not strong.  I didn’t cook them till they were mushy but they were certainly soft.

Overall, this is a wild green that I can really recommend – hmm, Grandma and Mama would’ve told me that if I’d listened.

Homesteading in 2020

Donna Crisp on Facebook page: WIlder, TN

Welcome to Spring 2020.  Here I am homeschooling my children, baking my own sandwich bread and grinding cornmeal because the store’s shelves are bare.  While I know a lot of history – and frankly have learned a lot of homesteading skills from grandparents that always feared we’d have to go back to those early ways – I’m feeling sorely ill-prepared. There are a bunch of places on the web where you can read all about modern-day homesteading and I’m thinking of checking out some of those sites as the hazy-future looks more like the isolation of early homesteaders than the bustling 21st century.

Tennessee Mountain Stories isn’t really about homesteading, but instead it’s about remembering those that took care of all that for us years ago.  I’m prepared to re-think my focus if our quarantine extends too long.

One of my second cousins who follows me (and I’m so honored you do, Paul) from his northern home routinely pokes fun, reminding me how his grandfather my great-grandfather would have handled situations.  I’ve had to admit to him that I’m not as well off as that old man who only owned one milk cow (and therefore had to hunt milk elsewhere when the cow was dry) because I’ve got no cow a’tall!  As the coolers empty-out at Walmart I’m wishing I did have a little brown Jersey picking out back.  I know how to milk, I can churn butter and make cheese – but these skills are worthless without the cow.

Well, I can grind my flour and meal because of an electric grain mill – here’s hoping the power stays on.  I rely on my bread-maker and electric oven, but my trusted Dutch oven is at the ready should I need it.  You’ve seen me make biscuits in it here and cornbread bakes just the same.  I’ve always got a decent stash of dried beans – because we always eat them, although I confess I bought an extra bag.   

Still, I have no idea where to find or cultivate chicory and I’m rather attached to hot coffee.  Thankfully, two deer went in the freezer this winter so our protein needs will be met by that means if none other.  And I saw a bunch of wild creases on the mountain this week (I’ll try to share my experience cooking those next week) so the good Lord is gonna’ take care of our vegetable needs till we can get a garden in.

I guess I say all of this to ask: Modern-day-Mountaineers, we’ve been getting ready for this our whole lives.  We expected the Russians to invade and topple our infrastructure, then we prepped for Y2K or we’ve dreaded the big earthquake that would rip across Appalachia.  How will we stand up to this invisible enemy?  Will we dissolve into tears because Charmin isn’t on the shelf and Fruit Loops may be rationed?  Or will we dig into a plate of beans and taters and praise God in His heaven for giving us the grandparents who shared this knowledge and skill?

From Navajo Nation to Uganda, Africa

I recently met a young family from the Navajo Nation who are headed to Uganda, Africa to share the gospel of Jesus Christ.  So much of their life is very different from my Plateau beginnings, and yet a lot is the same.

Now, why would I want to tell y’uns about these Native Americans on Tennessee Mountain Stories?  I’m so glad you asked!

Because many of us in Appalachia have Cherokee roots, and we’ve talked here before about how those first inhabitants of our mountains shaped our lives even today, I took the opportunity to ask my new friends about their own genealogies.  The answers were a little heartbreaking and even with the gaps and questions in my family tree, I realized what a blessing I enjoy in the family legends that I share with you every week.

As “Americans” moved west, and missionaries of the late 19th century reached out to the native peoples, laws were enacted and schools established to “Kill the Indian, save the man,” as Colonel Richard Henry Pratt put it.  I’ve known this information from history books, but to meet these folks and learn that his grandfather was taken from his Navajo Reservation when he was 3 or 4 years old, given a new name and forbidden to speak his native language really gave those book-facts a face.  This man was given a “white” and he was so young that he never remembered his family name.  So genealogy searches seem impossibly difficult for his family.  By the time the young man came home to the reservation, his parents had died and there was no one within the tribe to return to him the family history the Indian Boarding School had stolen.

Our heritage is worthwhile, even the heritage of people whose conquerors called savage.  In 1918, Cherokees were employed to use their native language during the Second Battle of the Somme.  In 1942, the native tongue of the Navajo people was called into the service of the American people when the Code Talkers were established to encode Allied transmissions for protection from Axis eavesdroppers.  That same boy, who no longer had his native name, was one of those Code Talkers – and some of them would marvel that the United States needed them to speak the language they had previously been forbidden to speak. 

I cannot argue with the missionaries who trekked into hostile territory to tell the Navajos, Apache, Comanche, Chickasaw, Creek…there were more than 500 different tribes…about the love of Jesus Christ and His sacrifice on the cross that paid for their sins.  In fact, I heard these folks expressing gratitude that there are still missionaries going to the Navajo people, for thru those men they heard the gospel and committed their lives to God.

In fact, this young couple is now leaving their western reservation to take the same message of repentance, love and forgiveness to the people of Uganda.  Their methods are certainly different than the people who first reached out to America’s indigenous peoples but the message has not changed in the century-and-a-half.  They will learn Swahili (at least that’s the official language of Uganda, along with English), their children will learn to play the games of Uganda youngsters , eat the local foods and be greatly enriched by the culture of Uganda.  And the people of Uganda will receive the greatest gift of all, the gospel!

Matthew 28:19 Go ye therefore, and teach all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.”

Rag Shoes

Last week I posted a picture of my 93 year old Grandma Livesay with her walking stick, wearing her rag shoes.  Just about any time you see Granny she’ll be wearing these familiar shoes, unless you see her at church.  She’s worn them my whole life.  In fact, we all wore rag shoes.  Now my little girl has a pair.

This classic oxford shoe is very old – dating back to Prince Albert in the mid-19th century.  It’s not surprising to learn that fabric shoes were not subject to rationing in the 1940’s – although saddle oxfords were produced in canvas back in the 1920’s.  That had to have helped increase their popularity.

I wonder if we started calling them “Rag Shoes” because they got ragged a lot faster than the leather variety?  In fact, I wonder if any of you call them “Rag Shoes” – or did this peculiar term originate with my grandma?

There’s a modern style of rag shoe – but it seems to come ragged from the store, and isn’t of the oxford style.  My grandma’s generation created their own rags – wearing something as long as possible, patching when necessary and wearing it a little bit longer.  Things have changed, but canvas oxfords are still popular, and we’ll still call them rag shoes – especially when this child will turn them into rags in no time at all.