Nicole A. Taylor - The up South cookbook : chasing Dixie in a Brooklyn kitchen

I vividly remember my first meeting with Nicole Taylor. It was at Heritage Radio Network where her showHot Greasewas a major hit. She approached me with all of the energy and ardor of youth, declared that she had been stalking me, and began to talk about her projects. Her enthusiasm was contagious. Nicoles drawl reminded me of the soft, sibilant accents of my parents friends of long ago. And I was struck that her Up South vividly mirrored the preserved-in-amber South in the North in which Id been raised in the 1950s.

We began to see each other, and soon she and Adrian, her husband, had become a vital part of my extended family. Over the years of our friendship, Ive learned that she has a passion for Southern food and her native Athens, Georgia that is unmatched. She also possesses an exacting eye, and she has the tenacity of a terrier when it comes to researching! Shes an uncompromising cook who will search far and wide for just the right ingredient, and she is a consummate hostess who brings all of the glories of Southern hospitality to Brooklyn. As a networker, shes unsurpassed and she loves nothing better than a good tale, a good time, and a good meal. The Up South Cookbook, which you now hold in your hands, is the sum total of all that is Nicole. In it you will meet her family and her friends through their tastes and their tales.

You will be introduced to her great uncle Ben Taylor, a pillar of the church who was noted for his annual fish fry. You will become acquainted with her friend and natural hair guru, Anu Prestonia, who doesnt like to have her foods touch on her plate. Youll learn of restaurants and markets long gone like Wilfongs, her childhood fish market, and the now-defunct A&A Bakery, both in Athens, Georgia. And you will discover places that serve up foods that she has adopted in her northern home, like Russ & Daughters in NYC where she picks up smoked trout for her Smoked Trout Deviled Eggs. Youll also discover, or become reacquainted with, traditional Southern ingredients like crowder peas and butter beans, benne seeds, pokeweed, Budwine, and sorghum molasses. The Up South Cookbook is a book to sit a spell with and savor.

Its one that will end up having its pages underlined and spattered with oil. Its a book that will become a friend, and as such it will bring you the tales and tastes of Nicole Taylor as shes experienced life chasin Dixie both down and Up South. Jessica B. Harris Huge pecan trees that live to be three hundred years old. Their thick trunks tell the time and hold long lost memories. Fallen nutshells crack underfoot.

Whole nuts scattered in the shade. Wide-open fields full of food for the soul. Still lakes and slow-moving rivers. You want to fish? Not that river. Someone had an accident and the car fell in, drowning everyone inside. Where Im from, a story is ready to be told and there is always sweet tea chilling and mulberries dancing in the wind.

I was everybodys child. Aunts, uncles, mama, and cousins were one and the same. There was always a feast or Sunday dinner to feed aplenty. See and repeat; I dont remember ever being taught to cook anythingmy eyes were useful tools. After a million glances of icing being applied with a case knife or labor-ridden hands snapping beans, I could re-create dishes. All my journal entries from my early twenties clearly state this desireoften.

I aint country! Dont wanna be country! Dont call me country! After college, I buried almost all my food memories and replaced them with the flavor of Atlantas hottest new restaurantsadd swine and beef to the coffin. Similar to Easter, the food of my youth only rose once or twice per year. In the city, too busy to hate, I re-engaged my taste buds with the occasional trek to Busy Bee Cafe. Sitting next to the bus driver holding a sweating white Styrofoam cup and the college provost finishing off golden fried whiting gave me balance from months of eating everything but Southern food. As a daughter of the Peach State, I was shown that offering a glass of water and piping hot edibles earned you a crown. I became a queen and a walking gastronomic encyclopedia.

All my friends labeled my abode the place where modern entertaining and good eating never divorced. Then it happened: I left behind the all-day brunches and impromptu picnics in the park. I moved up, up as in Brooklyn, New York. Seems like yesterday, I walked the longest four blocks of my life from the Nostrand Avenue A train to my new apartment in the Bedford-Stuyvesant neighborhood of Brooklyn. Passing a Golden Krust, Kentucky Fried Chicken, one-dollar pizza joints, and fruit stands selling Caribbean specialties, everything about my new place reminded me of the West End (a tight-knit neighborhood in Atlanta). Just like that, my dream came truebut the transition wasnt smooth.

Immediately, I had opinions: The fridge was too small and the bathtub had this crazy sliding glass door that gave me visions of a trapped character in a scary movie. My first few days in central Brooklyn were more like a vacation with lost luggage. Home is supposed to have full cabinets with Carolina rice, nuts, and canned salmonand I was starting from scratch. The movers arrived, and the square boxes of Publix Super Markets brand of dried pasta soothed my yearning for something familiar. Shopping at Fairway Market in the Red Hook neighborhood of Brooklyn was an eventrain, bus, and cab, and a fourth-floor walk-up apartment. I cant recall my grocery list or toiling in the kitchen because it was the ides of July and my feet hurt like hell.

I was a wet-behind-the-ears Southern expat in a place that mocked my voice. I was sad but didnt express that emotion because I was built to adapt. Within days of moving furniture in, I was grateful and excited about gigging for an open-space and parks nonprofit in Manhattan. I spent my breaks and downtime connecting with foodies on Twitter. The 140-character social network was a newborn, and it became the place to escape from the work I loved (but wasnt in love with). I recall my enthusiasm to be on kitchen duty, which meant cleaning the mini fridge and being responsible for the office birthday cupcakesoh, the little things.

The stars were aligning: the rise of tres chic Brooklyn and my friendly connections with passionate gastronomes. Then I read an e-newsletter announcing Heritage Radio Network (a food culture radio station in the garden of Robertas pizza restaurant). Days later I pitched Hot Grease and began hosting a weekly program dedicated to reclaiming culinary traditions, celebrations, cooking at home, and eating as a political act. Ears all over the country listened to the connections between the American South and their local food. Memories of sitting in the kitchen and forgotten youthful friends were flooding my thoughts every second I cooked a meal. Chasing Dixie perfection brought back pig and red meat to my diet.