Tastes of “Home”

In one of his books, Kurt Vonnegut describes heading back to his hometown of Terre Haute, Indiana, for his sister’s funeral. He reminisces and notes that you can live many places in your life, but your original hometown is always your real “home.”

I am reminded of this idea because, in a few weeks, the four New Jersey Goodmans (both adults and children) will be heading to Savannah (my “home”) for a few days to join in the annual Cousins’ Party at my cousins Debbie and Joel Rotkow’s house. I am in training for the event.

Some people train by working out and dieting. Sure, I am doing a little of each of those. But I am also working out my taste buds to get them ready to take in some special Savannah delicacies.

There have been many yearly cousins’ gathering in Savannah. Debbie and Joel weren’t the first to host the cousins’ party. That honor belongs to Aunt Sara Heyman, who was really my cousin and not my aunt (but we follow Savannah custom in which older cousins and even older friends of our parents are automatically called Aunt and Uncle).

The Cousins’ Party guest list expands from year to year as cousins marry and have babies, and spouses and kids get added to the list. Sadly, it also contracts. We have lost some family members both older and younger in recent years.  So we spend part of each party welcoming and part remembering. We tell new stories and rehash old ones. And we eat—a lot.

This year, I am getting a culinary head start as I prepare for my return to Savannah. I am indulging in three essential Savannah foods to get myself in the mood.

First, Brett put in an order for me through Amazon for a “boiled peanut kit.” A box arrived with 2 pounds of raw peanuts, a large packet of sea salt and a smaller packet of Cajun seasoning. I followed the directions and combined them in a big pot filled with enough water to lift the peanuts 2 inches above the bottom of the pot. Then I boiled them and boiled them and boiled them. The package directions suggested 4-6 hours. I kept them going for more than 7. And they still weren’t as soft as I remember or really like. But they are salty and watery and taste like a mixture of garbanzo beans and heaven. In my distant memory, there was a store called the Chatham Peanut Company on Jefferson and State Streets. halfway between my mother’s workplace at Heyman & Son Clothing on Broughton and my father’s radio and TV repair shop on Jefferson. The peanut store had great parched and boiled peanuts and an owner who knew both of my parents and made me feel very welcome when I came in to make small purchases.

My boiled peanuts on the way to perfection

(If you want some history and trivia about boiled peanuts, go here: https://whatscookingamerica.net/History/BoiledPeanutsHistory.htm. One caveat: General Sherman sees closely connected to the history. Oh well.)

So there are now boiled peanuts in my home. And they are homemade! Which means my New Jersey home could masquerade as a Savannah home, sort of. The Savannah aspect is even more apparent if you check out my pantry which contains two bottles of Johnny Harris Barbecue Sauce.  They are the last two bottles from two cases I ordered last year. (And I just put in a new order to replenish my supply.) 

Sadly, Johnny Harris Restaurant on Victory Drive is gone, but the spirit (and the sauce) go on. Johnny Harris was where you went after a dance if you had money and a special date. It was a clear step up in cost and class from Shoney’s next door. Those were my two main alternatives during my high school years.

Johnny's as it must have looked when my parents first went there.

The third Savannah must in my training regimen is a little more controversial than the other two. It requires a little back story. 

Each year, I succumb to a “sales pitch” around Christmas time from an organization in Alabama that prides itself on employing numerous handicapped people on its staff, including the person who is calling me. According to his persuasive phone spiel, the cleaning supplies, garbage and storage bags, and other products I buy help to keep handicapped people like him at work. I am trusting and hopeful that the company is on the up and up. (It did pass the Google test.) 

  

Will these two fruitcakes last until our trip?

This year, the company offered a new item I couldn’t pass up—Claxton Fruit Cake. For me, historically, Claxton Fruit Cake is an essential part of Christmas time in Savannah. It’s heavy and sweet and may rot my teeth and expand my girth. I don’t care. My entire family makes fun of me when I buy one of more pound-size cakes to slip into my suitcase for the trip back to New Jersey each year. I don’t mind. And their making fun means that I have little competition when it comes to eating the goodies.

So there it is—my special Savannah first aid kit—boiled peanuts, barbecue sauce, and fruit cake. They are more than foods; they are memories and history. They are “home.”