Suburban Tasteland

From the Land O' Lakes Box: Red Hots Salad

Editor’s Note: This column is devoted to recipes and food-related stories from my life, mostly from childhood and adolescence, which is when food is most new or interesting or gross. The Land O' Lakes reference comes from a recipe box my Grandma C. gave me a couple years ago that is designed to look like a Land O' Lakes butter box. It is filled with all of my mother’s family’s traditional recipes, all handwritten on cards or old scraps of paper.

I’m generally not a fan of Jello-based salads. A big mound of jiggly red gelatin with specks of Lord-knows-what inside just doesn’t kickstart the salivaries for me. The main problem is the stark contrast in texture of the soft Jello with the hard, cold chunks of pineapple and other questionables. And as an adult, I generally feel that Jello is a tragic waste of calories. However, my Grandma C., probably sometime long before my birth, repaired all the wrongs of the generic Jello salad, mainly by adding two ingredients: applesauce and the time-honored candy, Red Hots.

This recipe takes the Jello, adds texture with applesauce, spices it up with Red Hots, giving it a cinnamon kick, and then, according to C., the optionals are pineapple, celery, and nuts. Frankly, I wasn’t aware those were optional, so for the purposes of this post and for honoring the great Red Hots Salad, they are essential.

I’ve never known a Thanksgiving without Red Hots Salad. And though it kind of looked like an alien mold with the kitchen sink thrown in (when is celery and applesauce ever in the same bowl?), it married perfectly with the rest of the grub. With its solid, but saucey texture and reddish color, it competed with cranberry sauce as the fruity/salady item. And as such, it was not a bad thing when it happened to seep into the mashed potatoes or a piece of gravy-covered turkey. And it’s the item that after you’ve gone up to the buffet twice, you go up a third time to get another helping of the stuff, no matter how bad of an idea that might be to your expanding stomach.

As I’ve progressed rapidly into adulthood, I’ve enjoyed sharing these family curiosities with AC, whose reactions are both funny (Oh my God, this is amazing!) and familiar to my own reactions, as my untrained palate as a child tried to understand what I was eating.

So whenever AC and I are back in Texas for Christmas, we request, no require, Red Hots Salad. And Grandma C. always obliges. Here’s the transcript from the hand-written card:

Recipe for: Applesauce Salad (Editor’s Note: This is my Grandma’s name for it, but I’ve always known it as Red Hots Salad)

“THE salad you kids always want.”

From: Grandma C.

1 pkg orange Jello
3 Tbsps red hot candies
1 can applesauce
1 cup boiling water

Add: pineapple,  nuts, celery. “I always add all of the above.” —Grandma C.

“Put red hots in water and bring to boil. Add to Jello and stir until dissolved. Add rest of ingredients. Pour in mold, and refrigerate.”

—AKC

Them Bones

One Saturday not long ago, our friend KS left a crackling cell phone message on our answering machine, giddily extolling the virtues of some barbecue place out in Woodbridge. At first, we thought it was some sort of prank call because the combination of her excitement and the patchy signal on her phone made it sound like some crazy lady flipping out over “ribs” and “Dixie” and “barbecue” and “Woodbridge.” Those were basically the only words that we could make out. But several playbacks later, and we sort of figured it out. A few weeks later, KS and JS were cool enough to pick us up for an expedition to this mysterious barbecue place: Dixie Bones. And then we finally understood how a barbecue joint at a dumpy shopping center out in Woodbridge could compel someone to leave a crazed answering machine message.

Our second visit was even more revelatory. We decided, being the piglets that we are, that we would each order a “two meat” combo, which comes with two meats, two sides and a choice of bread (cornbread for us—more to come on that one). AC went for the brisket and pulled pork shoulder, as he prefers the piles of chopped barbecue meat, while I opted for the barbecued chicken and ribs, my favorites. The chicken was deliciously tender with a crispy flavorful skin. And the ribs were powerfully smoky, just a touch wet, and dusted lightly with spices, the meat needing only a modest prod to fall right off the bone.

The brisket, cut into very small pieces, was somewhat less smoky with bits of crisp and blackened ends poking out here and there. The pork was wonderfully pink and a bit fattier than most of the pulled pork we’ve had elsewhere, but the extra fat actually enhanced the flavor.

And the sides at Dixie Bones are almost as remarkable as the meat. At Dixie Bones, it’s all about the "Muddy Spuds", both fried and baked potato combined with onions and spices, the baked mash and the fried crisp a nice contrast in textures. Though they appear unsightly, the Muddy Spuds seem to be Dixie Bones’ great contribution to the traditional array of Southern sides.

We also enjoy a helping of just a good ole fashioned straight-up veggie. We got the cabbage, which though stewed in a garlicky broth had nevertheless retained a bit of its crispness. AC enjoyed the liquor from the cabbage so much that he sopped it all up with cornbread crust (for more on AC sopping up strange liquids with starchy products, please read our post on Don Lobo’s).

Mac ‘n’ cheese is a particular vice of mine, so I always order it at barbecue or Southern food joints. Unfortunately, Dixie Bones’ talents don’t lie in the realm of Mac ‘n’ cheese. It was a bit too saucy, and it was topped off last minute with a pile of shredded cheddar—not my idea of a good version of an American classic. We also ordered the collard greens, an AK/AC favorite, and these were perfectly flavored with spices, and appropriately vinegary, requiring no additional dressing with the pepper vinegar.

One of the items that really shines at Dixie Bones is the cornbread. The recipe itself is nothing out of the ordinary, but it’s the preparation—cooked in a cast-iron skillet—that elevates it to stratospheric levels. The crust is nicely charred on the outside, while the dense inside is moist and cakelike.

AC, as per usual, went a big condiment crazy with the sauces. Dixie Bones makes not one, but four different sauces for its barbecue. All four sauces are noteworthy: the first was thin and vinegary in the North Carolina style, the second was sweet, a bit thicker and spicier with flecks of herbs and spices floating around, the third was thicker still and the spiciest overall, and the fourth is a ranch-style dill dressing, which apparently, is a big hit with Alabamans. Though even the waitresses are skeptical about this last sauce, we appreciate the fact that the owners, who are originally from Alabama, feel strongly enough about this Alabaman oddity to include it in their sauce rotation even if no one else seems to understand.

Even after this meat and starch bonanza, we were determined to enjoy dessert, as most barbecue places have a capital selection of pies, and I LOVE pie (I even read a book that was all about a woman’s travels crosscountry and the pies she ate along the way). Ari went for the “fried” (actually baked) apple pie, which was underwhelming. Just a medium-sized baked pie shaped like a fried pie, and filled with mediocre, though clearly homemade, spiced apples. We’re not big fans of pie a la mode, but this pie required ice cream to cut the dryness.

On the other hand, the pecan pie was second to none. Typical recipe: filling and pecans. Though the real ta-da of this dessert is the extra layer of pecans that was added right before baking, creating a supplementary crust of toasted, on just the right side of burnt, pecans.

After this embarassing display of glut, it was definitely time to get the check. As we were waiting, we glanced over at two tables to our right, both housed by patrons digging into what might be the biggest misuse of barbecue meat we’ve ever seen. Picture this: a giant baked potato, topped with your barbecue meat of choice, loaded even more liberally with shredded cheddar, sour cream, butter, onions, and whatever else your misguided heart desires. But these people were plowing into it like it was their final meal request. One woman even opened the levee on one of the barbecue sauces and drowned the meat and potato with it, most likely rendering all meat and barbecue flavor redundant. It was a sad thing to witness.

Still, our hearts will remain loyal to Dixie Bones.

Go there:

13440 Occoquan Road
Woodbridge, Virginia 22191
(703) 492-2205

—AK

Extremism in the Pursuit of Trashiness is No Vice

Some folks might be insulted if one of their friends gave them a copy of “White Trash Cooking” for their birthday. But that gift, which was presented to me upon my 23rd birthday, ranks among the most thoughtful birthday gifts that I’ve ever received. For some reason, I felt compelled to bring “White Trash Cooking” into my former workplace in New York, and conduct a cubicle to cubicle version of the old classroom show ‘n’ tell. Among the oddities that I chose to highlight in my presentation to  each of my co-workers was a beverage recipe with the straightforward title “High Calorie Pick-Me-Up” and the following instructions and anecdote:

Pour a small bag of Tom’s peanuts into a cold Pepsi. Turn it up and eat and drink at the same time.

Raenelle told me that this was one of Betty Sue’s concoctions. She said: “But it’s so trashy she won’t own up to it!”

One of the reasons I focused upon this recipe is that as appalling as it is, I was nevertheless intrigued by it. As I’ve written previously, some of my favorite food and beveraging experiences are offbeat combinations of sweet and savory. And it was the one recipe in the entire cookbook where the originator actually felt enough shame about its trashiness that she tried to deny its ownership. Similar to Raymond and Connie Marble’s quest for the title “Filthiest People Alive” in John Waters’ movie Pink Flamingos, I wanted to assume the mantle of extreme trashiness and its concomitant shame if only for the brief span of time that it takes to down a Pepsi mixed with salted peanuts.

So I was surprised when my manager, who was a fairly colorful personality in an otherwise staid corporate accounting department, stated matter of factly that she had frequently enjoyed a slight variation of the “High Calorie Pick-Me-Up” during her childhood in Oklahoma. Her version involved a Dr. Pepper instead of a Pepsi, which sounded even trashier.

Although I was slightly disappointed that my manager had usurped any pretense that I had to extreme trashiness, I resolved to try her Dr. Pepper and salted peanuts variation.

So on one otherwise unremarkable Friday night, I decided to stir things up. I set off to the corner bodega and scored a can of Dr. Pepper and a small bag of Planter’s salted peanuts. I then emptied the contents of each into a pint glass and drank it down greedily. The cherry and prune notes of the Dr. Pepper blended surprisingly well with the salt and roasted peanut flavor, although I’m still not sure what to make of the unusual textural competition between the fizz of the carbonation and the crunch of the peanuts.

Recently, I discovered that far from being some sort of marginal white trash concoction, the “High Calorie Pick-Me-Up” actually enjoys a broad southern constituency as is evidenced by this hilariously disputatious thread on eGullet. And even stranger still, a not entirely dissimilar drink is enjoyed in some parts of the Middle East. The Lebanese enjoy a drink called jallab, which is a mixture of date syrup, rosewater, and pignoli nuts. In fact, the Lebanese Taverna serves the finest rendition of this that I’ve had. One wonders if one of the impassioned posters on the eGullet thread would recognize the kinship between these two beverages. Um, perhaps not. -AC

Pan Gravy or Cream Gravy? Both.

AC and I love Southern food, and whenever we find an opportunity to grub some collard greens, pork chops, or succotash, we're there. And we're ready. However, my particular weakness in this department is chicken-fried steak (hereafter referred to as CFS). And therefore, when we moved back here from New York, it was quite a relief that Southside 815 restaurant, a mighty excellent CFS purveyor, was just a two-minute drive from our apartment.

My love affair with CFS really began in the fall of 2002, when I brought AC to Dallas (my hometown) for the first time. It was our mission to hit up all the great country-food places and barbecue joints we could, and in the process, I tasted two of the best CFSs I've ever tasted. In fact, that week, I ate three chicken-fried steaks—two with pan gravy at the now-defunct but universally lauded Gennie's Bishop Grill and one with cream gravy at Celebration. Both equally fabulous. I'm certain my cholesterol reached its peak that week.

Getting back to the virtues of Southside, the restaurant does many things right, but the CFS is top notch. The portion is substantial with its delicate crispy crust poking out in all directions and topped with a light cream gravy (not enough, methinks). And while it certainly stands on its own, it is my opinion that a great CFS is only as good as its accompanying side dishes, because the experience depends entirely on what you can combine with each bite of meat 'n' crust. At Southside, one can substitute, which is critical, as I'm not crazy about their default greens. I go with the mashed potatoes (skins on) and the succotash stew. With the vinegary vegetables, the starchy potatoes, and the foundation of a hardy steak, the meal is unstoppable.

If you have the occasion to enjoy CFS or anything else (also try the pulled pork and the Dixie Chicken Sandwich) at Southside, you must save room for the homemade butterscotch sundae.

—AK