Few things take a country boy like me back as much as preserves. Fig preserves, strawberry preserves, peach preserves, man, I might be drooling over my keyboard right now. These little jars of heaven – eaten while sitting next to an old fireplace high in the mountains – were the keys to happiness on a cold morning with a fresh biscuit and a hot cup of coffee.
Granny used to make fig preserves from a fig tree in her front yard that was as big as anything I had ever seen. As a child I called those “jelly balls,” and my favorite thing was biscuits and jelly balls. Oh boy! I can close my eyes and remember the feel of those things being squished between the fluffy layers of Pop’s biscuits.
You see, Granny didn’t cut those figs up. She preserved them whole. Stem and all. That way they maintained their shape and texture and didn’t break down. But the inside was all sugary sweetness. They would pop a little as you bit into them.
You rarely see fig preserves done like that anymore. These days you get these blender-massacred gobs. It’s a shame that a little fruit so perfect is so badly mishandled these days.
Figs are truly amazing. From the Garden of Eden on down, they have played a pivotal role in human life. Mainly because they taste so dadgum good. I am convinced that if we find a recipe carved on a cave wall somewhere in the Caucuses it will be for fig preserves.
A very dear friend of mine, Bill Prince, was rabbit hunting with me once and he’d brought along some good snacks that day. They included a batch of freshly made biscuits and fig preserves. The big jelly ball kind – oh, man!
I must have gone on for a while about how right this was and how this was how God intended figs to be enjoyed, all while wandering around listening to beagles run rabbits through the woods. I think we killed rabbits that day, but I know this: Bill and I had a ball talking about our grandparents, our kids, our families, and those wonderful little fig preserves.
I write quite often about food regarding the outdoors because that is what we do while out there in my culture. We cook big meals at deer camp, we have fish frys on father-son trips to the Gulf, we have oyster roasts for special occasions, and we BBQ for graduation parties. In short, everything has food involved.
Food is the Southern way of saying I love you and care for you. Southern men are routinely the chefs at these events, and we all have a specialty. Mine is probably the fish fry.
Lord have mercy, I have probably fried more fish than some parishes in Wisconsin. Last year I caught, fileted, cut up, prepped, and cooked enough for 66 men at a retreat. I lost feeling in one of my fingers for six months, I used a filet knife so much. In short, food is important to those of us who enjoy the outdoors.
Now, one day maybe I’ll give up my fish fry secret.
But not today. Tight lines and following seas, y’all!