Augusta National Golf Club - The caddys cookbook: remembering favorite recipes from the caddy house to the clubhouse of Augusta National Golf Club

Copyright 2019 by Tripp Bowden

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

Food Styling by Elena Richards

Cover design by Qualcom Designs

Cover photo credits: Judah Gutierrez, Arrie B. Bowden, iStock, and Associated Press

ISBN: 978-1-51074-352-6

Ebook ISBN: 978-1-51074-354-0

Printed in China

To Jess, for the idea, and for Fletch, who never stops believing. In the ideas, or, in me.

CONTENTS

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference .

Robert Frost

Circa 1915

AUGUSTA & ME: THE MAKINGS OF AN UNLIKELY FRIENDSHIP

M y love affair with Augusta National began more than four decades ago, at the tender age of 10. During those formidable years, I came to know her in ways unlike anyone before me. Or since.

We grew up together, Augusta and me. No, not during the days of Bobby Jones standing on muddy tee boxes, ripping drives into the wild blue yonder to determine where to place bunkers, plant pines, or move mounds of red Georgia clay, but in the 70s, when Evel Knievel was breaking bones as fast as Jack was breaking par. A time when parking lots were gravel, and the waiting list for Masters badges was something you got on, not something you waited to get on.

We were green as the wax paper cups that overflowed with Coca-Cola, Augusta and me. As green as the refrigerated bent grass that replaced Bermuda on the fastest surface this side of melting ice cream. We were ticket windows with tickets for sale, gallery guards holding yellow ropes as suggestions, not commands.

We were the back-9-only televised, sixty-second commercials that held your attention, practice round tickets laying on Formica kitchen counters, a single black-and-white TV on a worn, wooden desk in the caddy masters officean office that doubled as storage for the pro shop, with members clubs stacked in corners like so many organized matchsticks. We were local caddies who knew the course like bloodhounds know the trail, cold or hot. We were the beginning of the end of a golden age, Augusta and me.

And, man, did it feel good to be both.

Tripp Bowden, 17 July 2018

INTRODUCTION

T hey say theres an art to great cooking. I wont argue that point. Theres an art to everything, from bubble gum blowing to kickball to preaching to the choir to orthopedic surgery. But you dont have to be Rembrandt or Picasso to be a great artist (ever heard of Bob Ross?), just like you dont have to be Julia Child or Paul Prudhomme to be a great cook. Youve just got to be you.

Its easier than youve been led to believe.

I have no professional training with Pampered Chef garlic presses or Le Creuset Dutch ovens; no Cooking 101 certificates of achievement hang from the walls of my man cave. But that hasnt stopped me from cooking like Justin Wilson with a Category 4 of frenzy fast approaching, filling my familys kitchen with the succulent smells of fried pork chop sandwiches and collard greens, or peppercorn crusted filets with glistening Parisian potatoes and grill-marked Italian bread.

And it shouldnt stop you.

If it has, consider this cookbook the ultimate set of culinary jumper cablesa road map to the land of great eats. Go where you want to go; tackle the interstate or boot scoot down the backroads; take on the road less traveled or the road not traveled at all. Im cool with either. Just promise me youll take oneor as Sean Penns Spicoli character once said to the brother of a young Forest Whitaker in the 80s-defining teen comedy Fast Times at Ridgemont High , You drive, Ill navigate.

Given the fact that both Penn and Whitaker went on to win Best Actor at the Academy Awards, surely there must be a sliver of truth in such sage advice.

When it comes to cooking, Im not into exact measurements, not a huge fan of saying, well, this dish calls for a teaspoon of that, a tablespoon of this, an ounce of Im not gonna eat it, and a pound of you just cured my appetite for life. But Im King Kong big into making sure this, and that, are in there . If you grew up in a home where meals were made with a pinch, a dab, a drizzle, and a splash, this is the cookbook for you.

Oh, can you promise me one more thing? Pretty please, with a cherry (or whatever you wish) on top?

Once youve tried these recipes the way theyre rolled out on these pages, promise me the next time you make them, you make them your own. This is just a road map, remember? Take whatever exit you like.

Youll get there.

JUST ANSWER THE QUESTION, YOUNG MAN

(BUT WHERES THE FUN IN THAT?)

W hy?

Why do we all own at least one cookbook, even though we may not know a cream-filled doughnut from crme brle?

What is it about eating a dirty water dog on the corner of 81st and 3rd with a New York summer shower splashing our skin, or dining with friends over a shared appy of Oysters Rockefeller at 21 Club that somehow, defying all logic and reason, puts a smile on our face we simply cannot take off?

What is it about food that brings us together, regardless of race, color, background, or creed? Why does the vast majority of things we do, say, share, and celebrate so often involve foodand lots of it?

Because good food makes us happy, thats why!

From street corners to street lamps, from Zagat zealots to holes in the wall, good food makes us happy. Its no different the world over, even within the hallowed walls of Augusta Nationals iconic dining room, land of imported Italian olives the size of strawberries and an endless sea of Lafite Rothschild, name the year, forget the price. Or at Augustas picnic-tabled, cinder block caddy house, where fried pork chop sandwiches and southern style butterbeans once ruled the roostgood food is good food.