A friend from New York recently asked me to describe a southern Christmas. Well, the South is a very big place, but I think I can conjure up some images of what it’s like here on the Georgia coast, where we live.
The cool, dusty blue light of the December sun grazes the tops of swamp grass and camellias blooming in Old Savannah. Garlands of real holly and evergreens hang from the great solid doors of the old mansions and you can hear the bells on the bridles of the mules and horses as they drag the tourists, packed into carriages, through the dappled streets. and around the lush, shady plazas. . Carols can be heard at City Market. It’s not humid this time of year, so their voices carry far and clear.
On the river in Bluffton, South Carolina, old women work frantically to shell and pack the salted oysters just pulled from the cold May River. It’s oyster season, by God, by God, and we country folk can’t get enough of them. I’m driving over there because I’m going to make an oyster pie for Christmas dinner. It has been my task. I buy twice what I need. Eat half of them on the way home. I carry my own oyster knife from October to April, but this is when I really work that bad boy.
Southerners worship at the altar of the fryer. In recent years, I have been assigned the additional task of frying the turkey for both Thanksgiving and Christmas. (This procedure frees up the oven for more important operations, like cobbler baking and the final heating of my grandmother’s homemade yeast rolls.) I like to roast those turkeys. I inject them with melted butter and cayenne. I light that burner outside and have a beer. I lower that bird into the bubbling cauldron and watch it, mesmerized, until it’s time to take it out and put it on the serving plate. I am happy and in the moment.
Then, like anywhere else, we sit back and enjoy the family, the laughter of children, the smells that comfort, and the sounds that remind. And of course the food. There’s the roast beef that my uncle speared, he strapped and timed as if he were on a critical NASA mission. The crab dip that my grandmother used to make but now my aunt prepares it. Spiced pecans. And, once the gifts are opened, the boiled egg custard, the bourbon caramel and the pralines.
Although fireworks are illegal in Georgia, they can be purchased across the river and that’s exactly what we do. At night, we turn on the cold black sky and then run inside, breathless… collapsing on the couch, the floor, the discarded wrapping paper. Sold out.
So to my New York friends and anyone else north of Mason-Dixon, please come by sometime and enjoy your own southern Christmas. God bless us all!
OYSTER PIE OR CAKE
Ingredients:
1 liter of shelled oysters with their liquid
2 cups of crushed crackers
3 or 4 spring onions, finely chopped
1 shallot, finely chopped
1/4 cup chopped flat-leaf parsley
2 tablespoons lemon juice
1 teaspoon Worcestershire sauce
1/2 teaspoon Louisiana-style hot sauce
1 cup half and half
cold butter
salt and pepper to taste
Cooking instructions:
Preheat oven to 400F.
Combine all wet ingredients, including oyster liquid, in a non-reactive bowl and set aside.
Grease a 1 1/2-quart baking dish lightly with butter.
Sprinkle bottom of baking dish with cookie crumbs until coated.
Arrange a layer of oysters on the plate and then lightly salt and pepper.
Add some parsley, shallot and onion on top of the oysters.
Add another layer of cookies and then dot with some cold butter.
Repeat these layers until the oysters and crackers are gone.
Cover with butter and pour in the wet mixture.
Bake about 30 minutes
for 6
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