An homage

In my many years of schooling, I've been guided by several excellent instructors. From my aptly named 1st grade teacher, Mrs. Apple, to my grad school stats guru, Dr. Connerly. At the end of the day, though, the absolute best was Howard Bahr -- my lit instructor at Ole Miss. He was born to teach literature. When Mr. Bahr discussed a book I felt I was living the story. He had a wonderful habit of pacing the room and fiddling with his pocket knife as he led us through various pieces of literature. His analysis was excellent, but I've always remembered his personal comments more than any explicit piece we ever discussed. I know it's a cliche, but I always felt he was trying to teach us something about life rather than just trying to get us to memorize a bunch of character names, dates, and themes. I never ever missed one of his classes.

When I knew him, Mr. Bahr was a lit instructor and the curator of Rowan Oak (Faulkner's home). An academic cat fight, however, forced him out, or so I believed, and he ended up at Motlow State CC in Tennessee. Since he's been there, he has managed to write three critically acclaimed Civil War novels. While I'm not a huge fan of Civil War fiction, these books are excellently written and, as I'd expect from Mr. Bahr, are filled with the most wonderful words. They certainly capture the time period. The man has a way with words. His first one, The Black Flower, came out the same year as Cold Mountain and while there are many similarities in the two, I've always thought it a bit unfair that the lesser book (in my opinion) received gobs of attention while the better book went virtually unnoticed. Oh well, such is life.

Anyway, I got to thinking about Mr. Bahr again a couple of years ago when I saw that he had been included in The New Great American Writers Cookbook. Though it's a tad long, and I'm sure I'm violating several copyright laws, I feel the need to reproduce his entire recipe. Here, according to Howard Bahr, is how to make "Hopping John and Other Fables":

First off, I should make it plain that I'd as soon do long division as cook. I hate the art and all that pertains to it, and I do not practice it. Furthermore, I have little use for eating and would not do that either, save when I don't, I get peckish [a true Mr. Bahr word]. All who know me will be astonished to find me in a cookbook, but no more astonished than myself. In any case, I am honored to be among such distinguished company, whatever the venue. Now I can say, "Yes, Barry (or Larry, or Ellen, or Amy, etc.) and I worked on a book together." I can claim that it was nothing unusual, that we do it all the time, and so on. It would not be as big a lie as some I have manufactured.

And now, from the man who cannot make a grilled cheese sandwich, comes a venerable dish I have prepared almost every day since I was weaned more than half a century ago. The cooks of the U.S. Navy did not include it in their repertoire, so I went those four years without it, but I was young then and could suffer any hardship. In the Southern vernacular, the dish is known as "Hopping John," though in my family it was, and is yet, known as "Peas and Rice," or Le Pois et Riz. I use the French because it seems more ... chef-like.

To succeed, the ambitious cook must first master Le Riz Parfait, or "The Perfect Rice," a secret handed down to me by my good friend Dr. Randy Cross, who learned it years ago in the monastery, and which I now give to you. It is an important process, for rice is a staple in the Southern American diet, as well as that of China, Japan, and Southeast Asia. Think about that for a moment, then begin.

Prime: Buy a box of Uncle Ben's Converted Original Rice. I do not pretend to know how it can be converted and original at the same time. In any event, read the instructions on the side of the box and follow them.

Seconde: The crucial element is to cover le pot and let le riz simmer for 20 minutes -- no more nor less. Do not be tempted, as so many are, to lift the cover and look inside to see what is happening. Nothing is happening of any interest. Neither may you stir. Go away and occupy yourself at some useful thing until the 20 minutes is up, then set le pot aside for 5 more minutes. You still can't look. At last, in due season, lift the lid and Voila!: Le Riz Parfait!

Tierce: Open a can of Bush's Best Black-Eyed Peas. Put them in l'autre pot and boil on high -- no use fooling around.

Quatrieme: Put some of the rice on a plate and put some of the peas on top of it. Mix them together. Serve with bacon, Spam, Red Devil Potted Ham, or some other easily prepared side. Drink ice (not iced) tea (in French, simply The -- I do not think they have a word for ice).

I am gratified to be able to share with the general public this simple, but robust, dish. My present constitution is owed in large measure to it; I can only hope it may do the same for others.

While I realize others will not appreciate this as I do, it is vintage Mr. Bahr. Now go read (or better yet, buy) one of his novels. At the least you'll get karma points.