Jeffy C

Let’s start this post with a little quotation from Edwin Way Teale’s classic and Pulitzer Prize–winning Wandering through Winter: A Naturalist’s Record of a 20,000-Mile Journey through the North American Winter (1957; reprint, New York: Dodd, Mead, 1981), p. 187.

(Note: the index in my edition is wrong: It says “Jefferson City, Arkansas, 107, 190–191”; when it ought to be “Jefferson City, Missouri, 187, 190–191.” Whoever indexed it must have been in a terrible rush. “Jefferson City, Arkansas”—come on.)

“Toward the end of an overcast day, we came to Jefferson City, on the banks of the Missouri River. Here we encountered a local contraction of a place name like many we had met from coast to coast. When a name is long, the local pronunciation or contraction often takes the path of least resistance. San Bernardino, California, becomes “San Berdoo” and Elizabethtown, Kentucky, “E-town.” [I would add Provincetown, Mass., which is similarly called “P-town.”] And so Jefferson City, the capital of Missouri, is known locally as “Jeff City.” When we were [in Arkansas] inquiring the way to the diamond farm, I discovered that when I was talking about Murfreesboro and a filling station man was telling me about “Murfboro,” we were talking about the same place. I asked a waitress in the town if people always called it Murfboro. She said:

“They do when they’re tar’d.”

Now, I happen to know that many people of the City of Jefferson (as it’s officially named) dislike the shortened form of the name: Jeff City. I suspect they think it sounds undignified, unlearned, uncouth. My source for this is none other than the head of the city’s CVB, because he’s told me that the town’s prominent business and other leaders don’t like it. Thus the CVB avoids it in all their publications. No joke—they don’t think it’s funny.

Or charming, or endearing.

I completely disagree, so I happily and freely call it “Jeff City,” and “Jeff,” as well. My folks use the term; apparently they always have. And they love this place. They’re natives. They’re not rubes, they’re not dumb. And they know what they’re talking about. Best of all, they’re not insecure about how outsiders might judge their nickname for their hometown.

So what’s wrong with the nickname? Even in San Francisco—where at least since the 1950s when columnist Herb Caen declared the nickname “Frisco” undignified, thus verboten for anyone but ignorant tourists (who were to be sniffed or winced at by proud, correct “SanfrnSIScans”)—the forbidden nickname is starting to make a comeback. Seriously. Among the hip and trendy. “Frisco”—it’s starting to get okay to say it again, even among the natives. I know it’s true because I read about it here. And here.

So! If this kind of thing is happening out on the West Coast, then I’m simply ten to fifteen years ahead of the fashion, here in the Midwest, calling this place good ol’ Jeff. (Just watch: Sooner or later, they’ll even be selling the town as “Jeff.”)

Trust me, like it or not, “Jeff City” is here to stay.

Cajun Catfish House

Get ready to come with me to St. Martins, Missouri, out by VFW Post 35, where our destination today is the venerable Cajun Catfish House! You might look at the place skeptically and think, Hmmm, it looks like a little hole-in-the-wall. But trust me on this, okay?

But first of all, I have to make a confession: I lied. The lady who waited on us asked why I was taking pictures of the food on my plate, and she specifically asked if I was doing a review, and I said no. That was on June 23. Lady, if you’re reading this, I apologize for lying to you.

But the reason why I feel okay about this is that I don’t have the time to review restaurants I hate—so she need fear me not. In the course of my “reviews,” I might make suggestions, I might mention a few things I wish could change, and I might poke fun at quirky details . . . but I’m not going to waste my precious time writing about a restaurant I seriously wouldn’t tell you to go to.

So! I don’t know a lot about the history of this place, but it’s been there quite some time, and they seem to do a good business. Keep reading for my favorite Cajun Catfish House story. But first, the review I said I wouldn’t write.

When you step in the door, you’ll notice something: It doesn’t smell fishy in there. It smells clean and good. This is a good sign at a catfish joint, just as it is for a fine sushi restaurant.

When you look around, you’ll see that they’ve been collecting fish statuettes and have decorated the place, appropriately enough, with the requisite fishnets and what-all. But it’s not cluttered. It’s clean in here.

I didn’t photograph or memorize the menu, but they do have a decent selection of foods for your friends who aren’t into fish. But why talk about that, when you’re here for the catfish?

We both got the six-piece catfish plate, which came with a choice of two sides and a choice of either a corn muffin or a couple of hush puppies. The waiter brought us a basket (obviously straight out of a refrigerator in back, meaning this stuff doesn’t sit around) with squeeze bottles of their own Cajun ranch and tartar sauces, cocktail sauce, and ketchup.

First, the sides: We had red beans and rice, coleslaw, dirty rice, and green beans. I guess some people, in our supersized society, would want more, bigger portions, and with more care put into the side dishes. But I was fine with the quantities (they did have larger platters available), and the quality was decent enough: The red beans were stewy and comforting, a nice foil for the crispness of the fried fish. The rice was tender and rather peppery, but like the red beans they weren’t overly spicy.

If you’re not interested much in “hot” foods, this is a Cajun-themed restaurant you can enjoy. And if you can’t appreciate food that’s not fiery, then maybe you need to partake of that bottle of Tabasco on the table.

I’m not saying the food isn’t spicy here—it’s just not fiery (at all).

On to the fish, which is the big deal here: It was crispy and perfectly cooked. Not greasy. The breading was nicely spiced and definitely goes beyond the standard breading seasoned with salt and pepper—a nice heat.

I think that one of the reasons why the fish is so often perfectly cooked here is that they use a timer back there in the kitchen; no guesswork. We kept hearing it go off: Beep, beep, beep. (But it wasn’t distracting.)

For dessert, we had the chocolate pie: Mmmm. Not too sweet. Nice and cold. Hit the spot. Sue purred and said it reminded her of her grandma’s. (Well, you can’t get much higher praise for a pie than that!)

Two six-piece catfish dinners (thus four sides), two iced teas, one slice of pie: Twenty-six dollars, not counting the tip. And yes, friendly, good service, pleasant though not upscale atmosphere, and two happy, satisfied diners.

No one’s going to drive for many hours to get to Cajun Catfish House, but for us locals, it’s a spot to relax and enjoy a lot more than the perfectly cooked catfish—it’s a place to enjoy a good-quality diner, some laid-back local color, and the company of other friendly mid-Missourians.

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Now here’s that little story I promised you. It’s not a huge deal, but the story goes like this: When my Grandma S was getting old and blind, my dad and uncle enjoyed taking her on little outings, which she dearly loved, and one day they drove her clear out to St. Martins and the Cajun Catfish House.

Grandma ordered a beer—probably some Budweiser or Miller product, right?—and when the waiter brought it, Grandma protested: “Hey! There’s no head on this beer! What kind of beer is this? It’s flat!” The waiter, bless her heart, poured her a new mug, and made sure there was a big frothy head on it.

Pretty nice to humor a ninety-year-old beer snob, huh? Ha ha ha.

I think about that story every time we go to Cajun Catfish House.

Bertha. Bertha Was Her Name.

Mom remembered the first Mrs. Sippel’s first name: it was Bertha.

And she also found another recipe from the Cooking with Faith cookbook, and this recipe is credited to this Mrs. Sippel. The first Mrs. Sippel. So the cookbook has recipes from both Mrs. Sippels in it. How about that.

Here you go. By the way, I think some instructions are missing, such as how to create a “marbled” effect using the two different colors of batter . . . but then I guess you can figure out how to do that: dollop and swirl with a knife or skewer.

“Family” Marble Cake

1 c. butter
1 c. milk
2 c. sugar
3 c. flour
6 egg whites
3 tsp. baking powder

Blend butter and sugar. Combine baking powder and flour. Blend into first mixture alternately with milk. Beat egg whites until stiff, but not dry, and slowly blend into mixture. Remove 4 tablespoons mixture into a small bowl. Add:

4 Tbsp. cocoa
1 tsp. cloves
1 tsp. allspice
1/2 tsp. nutmeg
1/2 tsp. cinnamon

Bake at 350 degrees about 40 minutes. Does very well in tube pan.

Mrs. Wm. Sippel (Bertha), First President of Faith Guild

From p. 130 of Cooking with Faith: Favorite Recipes of Faith Lutheran Church Women, Jefferson City, Missouri, by the Faith Lutheran Ladies Guild, Jefferson City, Missouri [1975].

The Dinner Mr. Sippel Never Had

I don’t mean to make fun of anyone, but it was kind of funny to think this yesterday when I plated the first Mrs. Sippel’s meatloaf alongside the second Mrs. Sippel’s cooked red cabbage.

I followed the directions, even though I was pretty sure the red cabbage wouldn’t cook well with vinegar in the water. Sue was a little let down by the texture and the flavor. Yeah, my recipe really is better. (I’ll share it one of these days.) But Mrs. Sippel’s wasn’t bad; it was just really plain. And crunchy.

Someday I’ll have to tell you a family story—well, more of a legend—about my Great-grandma Thomas and red cabbage. It speaks of the love she had for beautiful red cabbages, and the love her husband had for her.

. . . Okay, and the meatloaf—well! I was a little let down that it didn’t remind me a whole lot of my mom’s. Partly because I didn’t cook it as long as I remember my mom cooking it; she didn’t want us to get worms, or E. coli, so her meatloaf tended to be a little firmer than mine. I was actually going to leave it in the oven longer, but Sue noticed the sides had pulled away from the loaf pan, and the inside was cooked, so she probably saved me from overcooking it.

And another little detail that occurred to me: the ketchup on top. Mom always used to very carefully pour it out of the glass bottle in little dabs (note that the recipe says “dot with catsup”) . . . and here I am, in 2009, with a handy plastic squeeze bottle of Heinz that doesn’t deliver the ketchup in “dabs” or dots. Oh well.

It tasted really good. I have to admit that I used a little more onion than the recipe called for . . . and I cut up the bacon into little pieces instead of laying big strips down the middle (this way it’s easier to cut slices later on).

Today, we’ll have cold meatloaf sandwiches for a late lunch. It will taste really good with some watermelon and potato chips. Summer is definitely here, folks.

Mississippel

This post builds on the previous one, about the women of the Greatest Generation.

I’ve learned that someone connected to me, a member of this generation, passed away recently: Mildred Sippel. She was born in 1916, got married in 1954 (yes!), and was the organist for her church for many years. This information is from her obituary, here.

I copied this picture from the newspaper’s obituary, and ten bucks says that it, in turn, was copied from her church’s directory.

Here’s how she’s connected to me: My mom’s aunt’s husband was Mildred’s brother. Which is to say, she was the sister of my Great Uncle Adolf. No, I didn’t know her, but my mom did. And I’m sure we’ve attended some of the same weddings and funerals.

So. Mildred Sippel passed away, and I had to go look in my copy of Cooking with Faith, 1950 to 1975, also known as “Favorite Recipes of Faith Lutheran Church Women, Jefferson City, Missouri, 1970.” Because she was a longtime member of Faith Lutheran.

(No, it’s not very clear what the official cookbook title is—the thing on the cover, or the thing on the first page. And you can’t tell what the publication year is, either. Church ladies’ cookbooks can’t be bothered with such details—it’s more important to copy all those precious recipes accurately.)

And behold! I found one of Mildred’s recipes—in fact, I remember looking at this recipe before, because when I was first teaching myself how to cook red cabbage, I studied her instructions with curiosity. (How much red cabbage to use, then? Apparently this must not make very much. Maybe she was just thinking about cooking for two, huh. And do you think the spelling should have been “Bierich,” or what? Hmm. I’ll bet she was one of those gifted “cook by feel” people. . . . Or maybe that’s the pun in the book’s title—you have to have “faith” that it will turn out!)

Anyway, here ya go, verbatim from the bottom of p. 46 of Cooking with Faith. Read my note right after it, however. Very important.

Beirich Kraut

Place finely cut red cabbage in pan with slightly salted boiling water. (Water should barely cover the cabbage.) Add 1 teaspoon vinegar to water, cover pan and cook cabbage until tender, adding water if needed. When finished, add a little sugar or sweetener to taste.
Mrs. William Sippel (Mildred)

Note: I don’t know how long Mildred had to cook this after she’d added her vinegar, in order for it to get tender, but my advice is to cook the cabbage in water alone, first, until it’s completely done, before adding any vinegar. It can only be a small amount of water, too; it basically steams. As a general rule, if you add vinegar before the vegetable is soft, it will stay crunchy. . . . Hmm. Well, maybe Mrs. Sippel liked it crunchy.

Oh, and of course: Use apple cider vinegar. Of course.

Someday I’ll post my own recipe for red cabbage. Which is better; everyone loves it. But this is Mildred Sippel’s memorial post, and I don’t want to brag . . .

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And now here’s a bonus recipe for you! From my mom’s handwritten collection! This recipe is known as “Mrs. Sippel’s Meatloaf,” but my Mom pointed out to me that it’s not from Mildred Sippel . . . and it’s not from Mildred’s mother-in-law, either. Nope. It’s from Mildred’s predecessor, the first Mrs. Sippel, who passed away—hence William Sippel’s remarriage in 1954, to Mildred, who was the second Mrs. Sippel.

So yeah . . . I’m feeling warm about this dish. This is the exact same meatloaf recipe my mom used all while I was growing up. This here is real home cookin’, I’ll tell you what!

Note: Making these kinds of connections are one of the best things about living in your extended family’s home turf.

Mrs. Sippel’s Meatloaf

1 1/2 lb. hamburger
1 egg
2 tbsp. chopped onion
1 cup cracker crumbs
1 cup milk
salt and pepper (to taste)

For Topping:

bacon (2 strips)
catsup

Mix together meatloaf ingredients and place in baking dish. Put 2 strips of bacon on top and dot with catsup. Bake 1 hour at 350°.

(For more on these recipes, with pictures, click here!)

Greatest Generation: Women

It has often bugged me that modern feminists so often apply to the women in earlier eras a gauge of success based on standards artificial to the women of the past. Sometimes this isn’t done consciously, but it is a way of judging the past by comparing it to the present, which isn’t fair, or possible. If you use a yardstick that’s fit for women like Senator Dianne Feinstein or Martha Stewart, it simply won’t work for the women who lived the majority of their lives well before the modern feminist movement opened opportunities and (indeed) expectations.

And likewise, even though the term “Greatest Generation” does certainly refer to everyone, men and women, and Tom Brokaw didn’t mean to give more praise to the males, it seems that most of the attention given to that generation goes to the men. The war veterans.

As of this writing, the Wikipedia entry for “Greatest Generation” lists eleven “Famous members” of this generation, and every one of them, from DiMaggio to Graham to Carter to Capote to Kennedy, is a man. (Except for one: Harper Lee.)

And of course . . . if we’re defining that generation in large part by the fact that “they” participated in World War II, then men do come to mind, since the military was almost entirely a man’s occupation then.

And I know that people are pointing out, with great sadness, that we are losing this remarkable generation of Americans as they die of old age, but it seems to me that most of the attention is going to the loss of the veterans—the men—and not their wives.

As if the wives weren’t veterans, as well, in their own way.

Maybe they didn’t know the combat, but they were severely traumatized, too.

I guess my feelings for this generation’s women grow out of my admiration for my two grandmothers, who had to figure out how to struggle through the Great Depression and were grown adults—parents—during World War II and Korea . . . and Vietnam. They had brothers and cousins who fought in World War I, and sons and nephews who fought in the other three.

But I think especially about the effect the Depression and World War II had on them, particularly as they were parents of young children at that time. Making ends meet. Each day, enacting home economies that would make us cry and whine today, even with our own “economic downturn.”

Heat + Moisture + The State Capitol’s Lawn

More photos from June 23, same day as previous post. It was a day for mushroom photography!

These are shaggy manes (Coprinus comatus) (I’m pretty sure that’s what they are—I really need a refresher course in basic mushroom identification. Or else I need to just do the work necessary to identify them correctly, since I’m so rusty—pull some up, take them apart, and seriously examine the structure, take measurements, make spore prints, etc. I’m mainly just lazy.)

These were growing in clusters in the southeast part of the capitol lawn, in a shady spot. Lord, I didn’t even take note of the surrounding trees! How observant.

But then we were distracted—the big Race Across America bicycle race was coming through Jeff City that evening, and we got completely sidetracked. Also, we were trying to get a little exercise, which my picture-taking was hampering. . .

So here are some more mushroom pictures for you. Plus a bonus shot of the Missouri State Capitol.

By the way, here’s a Web site that discusses the current revision of the “inky cap” mushrooms—it turns out that shaggy manes, for instance, are fairly closely related to the agarics (you know—that’s the large group of both poisonous and edible mushrooms that includes Agaricus bisporus, the “ubiquitous white button mushroom of the supermarket”).

Oh, another thing: that phrase about A. bisporus is sort of a recurring joke in the book In the Company of Mushrooms: A Biologist’s Tale, by Elio Schaechter (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1997). I cannot recommend this book highly enough. It is informative as well as spirited as well as vastly entertaining. One minute, you’re learning amazing things about these magical little chemical factories, thinking “wow!”; the next, you’re laughing at some weird human-fungi interaction; and eventually, you’re feeling reference, awe, and gratitude for these amazing organisms.