Part 2

Southern Fried Divorce
by Judy Conner

(Page 2 of 2)

I guess the brown dog had been with that ex-husband about a year when I began the custom of the Christmas roast. I fixed it the same way every year and the brown dog liked it very, very much. It went thusly:

Take a 5- or 6-pound roast - I would choose a sirloin tip, but you could use a cheaper cut if you're the stingy type. In my own case, it's pretty much "Nothin's too good for this dog."

Preheat oven to 500° F - yep, that's 500°. Hot. Mix together 4 teaspoons of salt, 2 teaspoons of cayenne pepper, 2 teaspoons of coarse ground black pepper. Smear this mixture all over the roast. Cook uncovered in a Dutch oven or big iron skillet for 7 minutes per pound. Turn the oven off and DO NOT OPEN THE OVEN DOOR.

Do not open the door right from the start and not for at least an hour and a half after you turn the oven off. You will be tempted to peep in and out of there, but DON'T DO IT - it will mess it up if you do. If you cannot follow these directions, cook your roast some other way. When the time is up, remove and let stand for 10 minutes.

For people: slice and serve. For brown dogs: cut off the spicy crust. This roast will be rare. You can cook longer per pound if your dog prefers medium or well-done.

When I fix this roast for people, I also make these killer mashed potatoes - even though there will not be a whole lot of gravy.

White or red taters will do. Peel, slice, cover with water in pretty heavy pot. Bring to a boil, then simmer till done. Drain in colander and dump taters back in the pot. Add lots of butter, some salt, and white pepper to taste. Do not substitute black pepper - it's not the same. Pour in a dab of whipping cream and mash it all together. Then whisk, adding cream as needed, till you get the texture you like. I like some lumps myself. Good as ice cream.

The brown dog would come to sleep over at my house so he'd have time to eat all of the roast. It was hard, but he persevered. I'd serve him the first portion for early dinner, around five in the afternoon. He'd feed intermittently throughout the evening and finish up about 2 AM. Then he would go fast asleep with all four legs straight up in the air, which would soon be thick with brown-dog gas. Sometimes he'd fart so loud that he'd wake himself up. Then he would look around suspiciously, growling softly for good measure. He'd give a big yawn - tasting it - smack, smack, smack, and nod back off.

The reason I cooked a whole roast for the brown dog was, even though I'd given him to that ex-husband, I wanted the dog to like me best. It was a common desire of mine. I might not be the only one, but I would, by God, be number one.

I am pleased to report that my Christmas roast was his favorite present, and the brown dog looked forward to the consumption with glee. You could readily tell this because the only time he broke out of a shuffle was from the car to my front door for that Christmas roast. He generally liked to move as slowly as possible to annoy that ex-husband. The brown dog would usually stall around in the car, yawning and stretching, until he'd been invited to disembark at least three or four times. And even then he'd move like a thousand-year-old dog. Well, on Christmas Roast Night, he'd bound from that car before it was stopped good, and his nails on the sidewalk would be shootin' sparks. You're probably wondering how he knew Roast Night from any other. Well, he was always a great one for skulking around and eavesdropping. Sometimes I would manage to surprise him. I'd phone up that ex-husband and tell him, "Now don't say anything, just listen. I don't want the brown dog to know, so bring him over for the roast two days before Christmas."

One time that ex-husband brought along a friend, besides the brown dog, for the roast. It was this guy from Ireland who, by the way, was on a list of the ten most eligible bachelors in all of Ireland. Since he had this actual credential, I was, at first, pleased when he pronounced me a winsome lass, even though I was pretty sure that the top scorer would be the toothsome wench. This was a most charming Irishman, but his general attitude regarding the consumption of spirits and well, work, would clearly make him ineligible for any list of marriageable guys that I would compile. I think that country might have had more problems than bad food, bad teeth, and a history of crop failure. I think it is so great that the Irish have turned their country around so nicely.

Mr. Ireland was not my only foreign encounter that day. Earlier, I'd been to a holiday reception at the International Trade Mart. I was greeted by a very charming Latin gentleman. He smiled, bowed slightly over my hand, and said, "Feliz Navidad." I replied happily, "So nice to meet you, Feliz." After meeting half a dozen or so fun-seekers, all named Feliz, I figured it out: "Feliz" is Spanish for "Dude."

Anyway, that ex-husband and his Irish buddy decided to stay for the consumption. They were shortly joined by that ex-husband's nephew, who loved celebrations of all kinds ever since his mother had run off with the circus or the tinkers. I forget which. Warm greetings were exchanged all around and I handed out bourbons, which is what we drank in the winter. Everyone gathered at my big round kitchen table to be near the ice and await the appearance of the roast. I had comfy chairs and lots and lots of red do-dads in my kitchen, so it was hard to keep folks out of there. In no time, we were all aglow from the bourbon and that really hot oven.

"We had a r-r-really interrrresting time, last night," the Irishman offered in his Irish whiskey burr-voice.

"Oh, yeah," I mumbled, as I glared at that ex-husband, since they'd had that nephew out with them.

"Yeah," the nephew chimed in excitedly. "I got to play piano with Jimmy Buffet. He came in the club last night and we all went out later. We stopped by the bar at the Pontchartrain Hotel and they let us noodle around on the piano. It was great!" This was exciting stuff for that nephew, and for us all, really. We'd always been Parrotheads. Partly because Fingers Taylor, Buffet's best harp player, is from Mississippi, like me, and an old friend. Of course, Buffet's from Hattiesburg originally. That Mississippi deal is always there.

A week or so later, the story of the Nephew/Buffet piano duet was written up in the Times-Picayune newspaper. And neither me nor that ex-husband was responsible for it being in the paper. A lot of folks saw it and it was big fun.

I provided another round of bourbons, and the three guys began to feel peckish just as the roast had ripened. They were clamoring for shares in the brown dog's roast and snatching the slices as quickly as they slid from my knife. The brown dog's eyes were darting back and forth nervously from the roast to their mouths. He had yet to receive the first taste. What started as a whine of entreaty became snarls of indignation. That dog knew what was fair, and this was not it. He maneuvered himself between them and the roast and would not give way. They knew they'd been bested, and were obliged to settle for some impromptu nabs. Historically speaking, Nabs were little packs of crackers put out by Nabisco and sold in little grocery stores and service stations throughout the rural South. But if it's me talking, then nabs are anything eaten between meals. In this case it happened to be some honey-baked ham, ready-made from a ham store. I had, by the way, invested more time in acquiring that ham than I spend with some members of my family. During the holidays, those ham stores are like a box full of monkeys. They have to have some ham cops on duty to keep people from maiming each other trying to get to the head of the line, which snakes around through those brass poles and velvet ropes. Like at the bank, for crying out loud. "I'd like to withdraw a five- to seven-pound spiral-sliced ham, please ma'm."

I served the brown dog a very large helping of Christmas roast, with the spicy crust cut off. The guys eagerly snarfed the brown dog's leavings. I took my place at the table to enjoy the Ezra Brooks fifteen-year-old. This was some of the best sipping whiskey there ever was, but don't go looking for it. They quit making it. Come December, I remember it fondly as I do the look on that little hound face every year when the brown dog would first lay eyes on his Christmas roast.

Copyright © 2004 Judy Conner

About the Author

A Renaissance woman, Judy Conner is passionate about many things. Her prizewinning roses and camellias delight the many visitors to her home, "The Snuggery." She began reading her "Brown Dog Tales," the basis for this book, at the Sunday Salons in the French Quarter of New Orleans, and several were featured in the Faulkner Society Double Dealer. She is the older sister of Jill Conner Browne, author of the bestselling Sweet Potato Queen series. Raised in Jackson, Mississippi, she now lives in New Orleans, Louisiana, with her brown dog.