Cornpone Cookery

Getting folks in Tel Aviv to try, much less appreciate, cornbread is a thing. Had there been a movie called, I don’t know, “Hot Skillet Cornbread at the Whistle Stop Cafe,” hell I’d have people lining up around the block ordering the damn dish. But sadly, no. My Fried Green Tomatoes sell like hotcakes and my skillet-cooked cornbread stews from neglect. It’s a tragedy, I tell you. A downright travesty of justice.

I get it. I really do. At lunchtime at Pulaski Elementary School in Savannah, Georgia, they would serve this hard-as-a-brick, dried-up, guaranteed to choke up your gullet yellow mass pretty much on a daily basis. my hate, no my loathing for this dish was right up there with the smell of collard greens emanating from the same cafeteria line. It’s a wonder I ever made it to Junior High School.

Like most things in life, cornbread is all about the respect it is accorded. I know it is something of a contemporary thing these days to talk about respect for ingredients, respect for the cow before you slaughter it, respect for radishes, what the hell does respect for radishes suppose to mean, respect for the land and the growth cycle and the history of heirloom crops, but despite the fad, it is true. I can’t say I approach my cornmeal with religious reverence, I’m just not there yet. But you begin to appreciate the good stuff and homemade buttermilk (can’t buy buttermilk in Tel Aviv), and farm-fresh eggs, and sea salt. And the amazing smell of cornbread right out of the oven.

If there were ever a soul food dish in Tel Aviv that shouted out “life ain’t fair,” it would be cornbread. OK, so be it. Less for you, more for me.