Southern Pan Fried Okra (and a story of Brevard, NC)

PISGAH NATIONAL FOREST - BREVARD, NC

Mom was an expert at pan frying okra (and squash for that matter.) It was and remains the only way I like okra cooked. She could fry it crispy-on-the-outside, almost caramelized shell and at the same time very tender inside. Her method of pan frying the okra was in the fat she fried it in.  She used melted shortening and bacon grease (which she kept on the back of the stove.) In the south bacon grease is used as a seasoning! If you are not a fan of shortening and bacon grease, then vegetable oil is fine. One rule to keep the okra tender on the inside and crispy on the outside was not to salt the okra until after frying, because it makes the okra lose too much of the moisture while it is frying and will make it tough.  Always cooked in a cast iron skillet, of course.

We lived in the country in Brevard, North Carolina, south of Asheville at the door of the Pisgah National Forest, for a while when I was a girl and we ate many a meal with just fresh vegetables out of someone's garden from the little Baptist church my daddy pastored. Most were farmers of some sort and we were frequent recipients of bushel baskets of fresh produce. I grew up, and fondly remember, sitting on the porch stringing fresh green beans and shucking a bushel basket of fresh picked corn. Fried okra, a pot of pinto beans, fresh sliced 'maters, fresh corn on the cob, and of course an iron skillet of mom's buttermilk cornbread (leftovers crumbled up into fresh churned buttermilk and eaten with a spoon.) Scrumptious! I could eat like that every day. 

Daddy was the pastor of a small country church in Brevard and one of the folks in the church had a dairy farm and supplied us with fresh milk, cream still floating on top, fresh churned buttermilk, and butter. We went over to their farmhouse for lunch many Sunday's after church. I remember the grandma who was living with the family sitting on the big porch with an old-fashioned wooden hand churner which she pushed up and down as she rocked and drank sweet tea. Us kids were playing in the corn silo or being taken for hayrides. As you can probably tell from my story, this was my all-time favorite place growing up. (see below photos)

Ingredients
1-2 pounds of fresh okra stems removed, sliced 1/4-inch
1/2-3/4 cup yellow cornmeal ( I use yellow self-rising cornmeal mix)
1/2 cup vegetable shortening and bacon grease or vegetable oil
salt to taste

Directions:
Preheat a large iron skillet over medium heat with shortening or oil. In a bowl add okra, sprinkle cornmeal on top; toss to coat. Add the okra all at once to the prepared skillet and fry until golden brown on 1 side, approximately 6 to 7 minutes. Do not disturb until the bottom is golden brown. Turn the okra with a spatula and do not disturb until the majority of the other side is golden brown as well, approximately 3 to 4 minutes.

Now stir occasionally until all of the okra is golden on all sides, approximately another 3 to 4 minutes. Remove the okra from the pan with a slotted spoon or spatula to a sheet pan lined with a paper towel.Season, to taste, with salt and allow to cool for 1 to 2 minutes before serving.

Cherryfield Baptist Church, Brevard, NC



The parsonage where we lived was just down the winding gravel driveway from the church, lined with a row of pine trees we climbed as children. The little white house in front of ours (below) was occupied by a disabled woman named Helen who was in a wheelchair. As one of the church members, the church provided her this place to live and cared for her. Us kids would walk down to visit Helen often, on the way to the long stand of pine trees that we enjoyed climbing. We could go from tree to tree without coming down.

The basement of our house (below) doubled as the churches fellowship hall.

Brevard and the Pisgah National Forest were a natural playground. Slippery Rock (below), wading in the cold creeks, rope swings into the cold mountain water, hiking in the woods and meadows with Libby from our church (who gave me and my sister our nicknames - I was Peaches and Becky was Sunshine), climbing trees, and frequent sleepovers with friends. One of my best friends, Gail, lived on top of a mountain overlooking the valley and I spent a lot of time at her house. We'd swing in the porch swing, swim in the little pool sitting on the edge of the mountain, and walk down the mountain to collect the mail from the mailbox at the bottom. Her mom, Mrs. Dills, made the best country breakfasts and chittlin cornbread ever! Her dad owned a small gas station and Gail and I made ourselves sick on many an occasions raiding his candy vending machines! Another friend, Darlene's, mom was our little churches librarian. They were "rich" by Brevard standards and had a beautiful big white house with a Tara-like wide marble staircase and a large second floor screened sleeping porch which overlooked a dense forest of trees. When I spent the night was Darlene, we slept on this porch in four-poster beds, snuggled under lots of blankets, listening to the soft rain and crickets. It was magical. 

Every time I smell Dial soap, for some reason, I still think of the Coltrane Family. The two sisters, Gaye and Carol, were friends of my sister, Becky, and I. It was when we stayed with them over at their granny's place, that I decided when I was old as their granny I was going to have long silver hair like hers that she kept in a neck bun all day, but at night would let out and let us brush it with a wide brush before she braided it over her shoulder into a thick long silver cord at night. She kept chickens in the yard and when she wanted to fry up a chicken she just went out and caught one and holding it by the head, performed a whip-like maneuver which broke their necks. She would then deftly chop off the head and pluck out the chicken feathers. Now that was some fresh fried chicken!

The beauty of this part of North Carolina is amazing as you can see below, although the photos don't do it justice. If I could go back and live anywhere from my youth, it would be Brevard.