In the 1960s, Piedmont Label boasted a booming art department. If something could be canned, Piedmont could label it: Brunswick stew from Georgia, oysters from Mississippi, gumbo from Louisiana, black-eyed peas from Tennessee, pet food from Washington, D.C.
Filipino food is not easily comparable to Chinese or Japanese food. Because the Spanish colonized the Philippines, we share dishes with Latin cultures—adobo, menudo, flan. Rice, always white, is a hallmark.
Ed Scott formed a cooperative in 1971 in the area of Leflore County, Mississippi, known as Brooks Farm. The hope was that smaller farmers could, through the co-op, acquire loans and government support.
Found in small restaurants hugging railroads tracks that crisscross the counties of northeast Mississippi, northwestern Alabama, and lower Tennessee, these hamburgers defy hunger and solitude in a region where many workers worry over their next paycheck.
Foodways professor Catarina Passidomo explains the importance of studying food justice in America.
The Welcome Table serves as many as 600 meals a week, in six seatings, to one of the most diverse groups of people I have ever seen at table. An older man with an expensive haircut and black-framed glasses. Couples with babies. Young men carrying backpacks, neatly loaded, ready for another night of camping in the woods along the river.
“What’s Hoppin’ John?” I asked no one in particular. It was 2013, and I was working as a host and server’s assistant at Empire State South in Midtown Atlanta.
Being in the booze business, I have always wanted to shake up some kind of libation that nods to those crisp Idaho evenings, to the ice-cold creek water in which I was baptized, and to the South I now claim.
People often ask me if the Southern Foodways Alliance, like the University of Mississippi and the town of Oxford, slows down for the summer. The truth is, we pack our summers just as full as the rest of the year.