They say a recipe has no soul—that you have to bring the soul to it yourself. Well, in the Carolina sunshine, the “soul” of a strawberry isn’t just about sugar and cream; it’s about the grit, the drama, and the occasional midnight jazz concert required to keep the berries from being hijacked by the local wildlife.

If you’ve ever bitten into a plump, sun-ripened April strawberry and felt that explosion of tart sweetness, you’ve tasted victory. But behind that serene berry patch lies a battlefield where the weapons of choice range from bib overalls to brass trumpets and trombones.

The Great Deer Heist

Don’t let the “tranquil fields” fool you. While you’re dreaming of shortcake, farm manager Erik Hernandez at Boone Hall Plantation is running a high-stakes security operation.

• The Adversary: Hungry deer who view electric fences as mere “suggestions.”

• The Carnage: One year, five deer staged a “break-in” through a triple-layered fence, devouring the crowns of 1,000 plants.

• The Verdict: No berries, just a group of very satisfied, very athletic deer. Apparently, a young buck is willing to take a literal shock to the system if it means a five-star fruit buffet.

The Secret Weapon: Heavy Metal (and Brass)

Just like my friend Colonel Rathbun from Brickyard Point, today’s farmers have had to get creative. At Ambrose Farms and Wabi Sabi Farm, near Charleston, proprietor Jimmy Livingston has turned his fields into a sensory experience that would confuse even the most seasoned pest.

“I use radios left on all night to scare away the deer—any music with a lot of brass.”

Imagine being a deer looking for a midnight snack, only to be confronted by a high-volume blast of Herb Alpert & the Tijuana Brass. It’s enough to make any ruminant reconsider their life choices.

The 2 A.M. Bird Patrol

Livingston’s commitment to the strawberry is legendary. Back in the 80s, he faced off against a “mafia” of cedar waxwings—hundreds of them—who refused to leave the buffet. The solution?

1. A loyal dog.

2. A shotgun (aimed safely at the sky).

3. A 2 a.m. wake-up call for the entire neighborhood.

The Takeaway: The next time you enjoy a bowl of Carolina strawberries, take a moment to appreciate the “soul” that went into them. It’s a flavor profile that includes sunshine, hard work, and just a hint of a midnight trombone or two.

What’s your favorite way to serve these hard-won berries—do you keep it simple, or do you have a “soulful” recipe of your own? Please share!

I have a vintage recipe I like to serve with a fresh bowl of berries. The cake is rich and satisfying and pairs well with lighter, refreshing sides. It’s simple, soulful, and Southern. The indulgent Neiman Marcus Cake is a Southern classic known for its rich, gooey texture and delightful buttery flavor.

I’m passionate about sharing vintage-tested recipes passed down through the generations of home cooks. Share your favorite with us and a picture!

Consider becoming a paid subscriber. You’re not just buying a newsletter: you are becoming a guardian of our Southern legacy - safeguarding it for future generations.

Be sure to hit Subscribe.

Subscribe now

Neiman Marcus Cake with Cream Cheese

Simple ingredients, stunning flavors! A swoon-worthy dessert.

Ingredients for the base layer:

1 box yellow cake mix

1/2 cup unsalted butter, melted

1 large egg

Top Layer

1 (8-ounce) package cream cheese, softened

2 large eggs at room temperature

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

4 cups powdered sugar

Preheat and prep the pan. Preheat to 350 degrees. Grease a 9x13-inch baking pan and line it with parchment paper for easier cleanup.

In a medium bowl, combine the dry yellow cake mix, melted butter, and 1 large egg. This will form a thick, sticky dough. Use a spatula or your hands to mix everything until it’s evenly combined.

Press the Dough into the Pan

Once your crust dough is ready, press it evenly into the bottom of your prepared baking pan. Use your fingers or the back of a spoon to smooth it out. Try to keep the thickness consistent across the whole pan so the cake bakes evenly.

This base layer is rich and buttery, forming the perfect foundation for the creamy topping that comes next. It bakes into a slightly chewy crust that contrasts beautifully with the soft, sweet filling.

Cream Cheese Layer

In a medium mixing bowl, start by beating the softened cream cheese on medium speed until it’s nice and smooth. You want to get rid of any lumps before adding the rest of the ingredients—this makes the final topping light and creamy.

Next, beat in the 2 large eggs and 1 teaspoon of vanilla extract. Mix until everything is fully combined. The mixture should be creamy and pale yellow in color.

Don’t overmix this topping: Once the powdered sugar is fully incorporated, stop. Overmixing can cause the cake to rise too much and crack.

Now, slowly add in the 4 cups of powdered sugar. It’s best to do this in batches, so you don’t end up with a sugar cloud going all over the counter. Keep mixing until the topping is smooth and slightly fluffy. It should be pourable but thick—almost like a thick cake batter.

Once your cream cheese topping is fully mixed, pour it evenly over the crust layer in the pan. Use a spatula to gently spread it out all the way to the edges. This layer will puff slightly as it bakes and then settle as it cools, creating that classic gooey top. Place the pan into your preheated oven and bake for 35 to 40 minutes. You’re looking for a golden brown top and a center that is set but still has a slight jiggle. It should look a little soft in the middle. If you overbake, the cake loses its gooey magic, so keep an eye on it during those final minutes.

Do not try to slice before the cake is totally cooled down. Sometimes it’s a good idea to place it in the fridge for a bit to be sure you can get nice, super clean slices.

Chef’s Note:

For extra flavor, add a small amount of almond extract and a sprinkle of sea salt on top before baking.

Vary it by adding chocolate chips or a swirl of caramel. Have fun with it and make this classic a favorite.

Subscribe now

Indescribable joy accompanies the arrival each spring of our beloved soft-shell blue crabs. These beautiful swimmers create enough ecstasy to cause even the angels to sing. Festivals are everywhere, and blue crabs become like little pied pipers, leading locals and visitors to the nearest restaurant.

Subscribe now

In small towns like McClellanville and Murrell’s Inlet, blue crabs bubble peacefully in long, shallow bathtubs all along the coastal Carolinas. These are holding tanks for the blue crabs in various stages of molting or shedding their outer shells. Rather than scouring the ocean floor for soft-shelled crabs, fishermen capture them before they molt and hold them in saltwater tanks. As soon as the crabs drop their shells, they’re pulled out of the tank, which stops a new exoskeleton from hardening. After shedding its old shell, the crab expands by pumping water into its body, and the new shell begins to form.

His journey from the son of a modest household to one of Charleston’s wealthiest Black entrepreneurs is a legendary tale of local expertise, wartime risk, and industrial defiance.

A Self-Taught Master of the Sea

While most doors were barred to men of color in the mid-1800s, Leslie forged his own key. Homeschooled in reading, writing, and mathematics, he possessed an intellectual edge that he quickly applied to the water. As a teenager, while others saw only waves, Leslie saw a map. He obsessed over the Charleston coastline, memorizing every treacherous sandbar and hidden inlet. By the dawn of the Civil War, he wasn’t just a sailor—he was a supreme pilot, a man whose intimate knowledge of the harbor made him indispensable to merchants desperate to move goods through tightening waters.

War, Risk, and the Cuban Connection

The Civil War years remain shrouded in mystery—the private diary detailing his exploits was tragically lost in the mid-1900s—but the echoes of his ambition remain. In his early twenties, Leslie allegedly turned his genius for navigation into a high-stakes gamble, running supplies and armaments through the very waterways he had spent his youth mastering.

By the war’s end, Leslie emerged not just with experience but with capital. He struck a powerhouse partnership with a Cuban ship captain, A. Frances Lopez, and together they built a fleet from the ground up. They were innovators as much as sailors, engineering proprietary nets and traps designed to be “theft-proof,” ensuring their bounty stayed their own. As a pioneer of Black industry, Leslie became a major employer, hiring newly freed men and providing a lifeline of wages in a volatile post-war economy.

The Battle for the Deep: Mosquitoes vs. Smacks

Post-war Charleston became a watery battlefield. Leslie’s operation stood at the heart of the “Mosquito Fleet”—a brave armada of African American fishermen in small boats who dominated the local harvest, organized by Leslie. They found themselves in a David-vs-Goliath struggle against the “Smack Fleet,” massive Northern-owned operations that swept the offshore waters for shad and bass. After 1865, and the end of the Civil War, Leslie saw opportunity where others saw ruin.

The "Mosquito Fleet" wasn't just a group of fishermen; it was a vibrant, floating culture that defined the rhythm of Charleston’s harbor for decades. Named for the way their small, white sails looked like a swarm of insects on the horizon, these men—primarily African Americans—created a lifestyle built on skill, communal survival, and extreme physical endurance.

They would depart around 2 a.m. in small rowboats from the Charleston wharf. They often rowed or sailed up to 20 miles offshore to reach the blackfish banks. Perilous work. No GPS or motorized engines. They relied on the stars and their own knowledge of the currents. No industrial nets. The gear was simple. Handlines with multiple hooks. It’s hard to imagine the patience required and the skill against the great Atlantic.

Their boats were small - 15 to 25 feet. When sudden squalls hit, the fleet had to stick together to survive. Work songs were similar to the Gullah Geechee traditional songs they often sang while working on the plantations. They sang rowing songs - songs that helped men coordinate their rowing during the long trek back to the harbor.

The market hustle extended to the very streets of Charleston. Street criers with their wives and family members carried the day’s catch through the streets in baskets balanced on their heads. Melodic street cries, singing out the names of the fish - “Whiting! Live Crab!” alerted housewives and chefs that the bounty had arrived.

He even championed the shrimp industry; shrimp were often used as bait, but he began selling them for food. He not only sold these newly celebrated delicacies from his retail locations, but he also began selling wholesale to other retail markets, restaurants, and hotels, and shipping to northern markets. Local chefs became enthralled with the expanded options and developed new recipes for public consumption. It is no coincidence that standard Charleston dishes like crab pilau (also known as perloo) and shrimp and grits came into fashion in the late 1800s.

A Legacy at 72 Anson Street

In 1904, he purchased the Kohne-Leslie House at 72 Anson Street, anchoring his legacy in the neighborhood now known as Ansonborough. When he died in 1911, two days after his 70th birthday, the city paused for a two-day funeral—a final tribute to the man who mastered both the harbor and the table.

By the 1880s, Leslie and Terry dominated much of the Charleston seafood market, and Leslie’s wealth had grown substantially. This allowed him to invest in the Black community — assisting in the building of a church and a bank for African Americans, participating in fraternal organizations, and engaging in politics. He felt the call to improve conditions for his fellow African Americans and to set an example of Black wealth building. Nothing illustrated this more than the purchase of his grand house in Ansonborough in 1904, at the age of 63. The home at 72 Anson Street — now known as the Kohne-Leslie House, and previously the Benjamin Simons Neufville House — was clearly a source of great pride. This gorgeous 4,433-square-foot Greek Revival home was shared with only his wife and one daughter for a mere seven years before his passing in 1911, at the age of 70.

Today, Charleston’s seafood scene continues to honor these roots by emphasizing local tide-to-table sourcing and preserving the Gullah Geechee techniques that first made the harbor famous.

Subscribe now and help preserve the soul of this region through stories of the often unsung heroes who came before us. Let’s preserve our heritage for the generations to come. Hit the Subscribe button now.

Subscribe now

Share

There was a time when I lived near Colonel Rathbun’s Brickyard Point Farm on Lady’s Island. He grew some of the finest pecans in all of Beaufort County.

Living near Brickyard Point Farms meant two things: beautiful views and a front-row seat to Colonel Rathbun’s nightly tactical warfare.

When I met him, the Colonel was locked in a high-stakes, midnight standoff with the local deer and raccoons—critters who clearly viewed his pecans and vegetables as an all-you-can-eat Lowcountry buffet. Every morning, he’d recount the previous night’s skirmishes with the intensity of a four-star general, while the raccoons were likely back in the woods, patting their bellies and planning their next heist.

One afternoon, the Colonel marched up with the triumphant grin of a man who had finally outsmarted Mother Nature herself. He announced that the “Great Pecan War” was officially over. His secret weapon? High-tech surveillance? Electrified fencing?

Nope. A portable radio.

He simply marched out and plopped that little radio right in the middle of the field, cranking up the volume. Apparently, the deer weren’t fans of local talk radio or 40s swing, because he swore it scared them halfway to Beaufort.

There’s just something delightful about the image of a band of masked raccoons approaching a vegetable patch, only to be thwarted by the sudden, tinny sound of a weather report or a catchy show tune. It turns out, in the battle of Man vs. Nature, sometimes all you need is a good signal and some static to reclaim your crops!

Subscribe now

Many of the island's historic estates, such as Coffin Point Plantation, were known for their grand "Avenues of Oaks," but they also maintained orchards. Pecans were a staple of the Lowcountry plantation economy and remain a common sight across the island's rural landscape.

Gullah Geechee Foodways: For the Gullah/Geechee people who have farmed the island for centuries, pecans are a vital part of the local "wild harvest." They are a traditional ingredient in coastal desserts and snacks, often gathered from older groves that have survived since the era of the freedmen’s farms.

While large-scale commercial pecan shipping is now more concentrated in the South Carolina Midlands (such as Golden Kernel in Cameron), St. Helena remains home to diverse "specialty crop" farms, like Earth People Farms, that celebrate heritage crops.

Planning on entertaining this spring? Perhaps a Kentucky Derby Party or an outdoor picnic? This decadent twist on the classic Southern pie is made with a buttery graham cracker crust tipped with a rich, gooey filling of toasted pecans and melted chocolate. My tip for perfectly clean squares: Cool completely before slicing and pop the entire pan in the fridge for an hour before lifting the foil out to cut them.

Positively delicious, decadent, and delightful!

Recipe from my mother’s collection. She lived on Lady’s Island (1976-1996).

St. Helena Island Praline Bars

Yields: 24 bars | Prep time: 15 mins | Bake time: 50 mins

The Ingredients

The Crust

• 3 cups graham cracker crumbs

• ½ cup butter, melted

• ½ cup granulated sugar

• 1 large egg white, lightly beaten

The Filling

• 1 cup light brown sugar, firmly packed

• ½ cup light corn syrup

• ½ cup dark corn syrup

• ¼ cup butter, melted

• 3 large eggs

• 1 ½ tsp vanilla extract

• ¼ tsp salt

• 2 cups chopped pecans

• 12 oz mini semisweet chocolate morsels

The Preparation

1. Prep the Oven and Pan Preheat your oven to 350°F. Line a 13x9-inch baking pan with heavy-duty aluminum foil, leaving a slight overhang on the sides for easy removal. Spray the foil generously with nonstick baking spray (the kind with flour works best).

2. Par-Bake the Crust In a medium bowl, stir together the graham cracker crumbs, melted butter, sugar, and egg white until the mixture is well combined and moistened. Press the mixture firmly into the bottom of your prepared pan. Bake for 10 minutes, then remove and let cool completely.

3. Mix the Filling. In a large bowl, whisk together the brown sugar and both corn syrups. Add the melted butter, eggs, vanilla, and salt, whisking until the mixture is smooth. Fold in the chopped pecans and chocolate morsels.

4. The Final Bake Spoon the filling evenly over your cooled crust. Bake for 35 to 40 minutes. You’ll know they’re done when the edges are golden, and the middle is set (it shouldn’t jiggle when you move the pan). Add a tiny pinch of flaked sea salt on top right after they come out of the oven to balance the sweetness.

Hit subscribe and never miss a recipe or a story! Together, we are preserving history.

Subscribe now

Share The Diary of Southern Lifestyle Author Pat Branning

Panzanella is the ultimate “no-waste” meal. While the classic Tuscan version relies on summer tomatoes, this spring variation celebrates the first green things to hit the farmer’s market. The buttermilk dressing adds a creamy tang that balances the salty feta and the bite of Vidalia onions.

Subscribe now

Pass the salad! If you know someone tired of the same old side dishes, forward this recipe to them. Let’s bring some Southern Tuscan charm to every table.

Share

Their ultimate "no-waste" hack proved that with enough olive oil and a little Tuscan sunshine, even a kitchen disaster can become a masterpiece.

Long before it was a staple of modern brunch menus, Panzanella was a stroke of genius born of necessity. In the sun-drenched hills of 16th-century Tuscany, bread was far too precious to ever throw away—even when it became rock-hard. To “resurrect” these stale loaves, Italian peasants would soak them in water and vinegar, toss them with garden onions and cucumbers, and create a meal that was as refreshing as it was resourceful.

Panzanella was a stroke of genius born of absolute desperation.

To “resurrect” these culinary bricks, Italian peasants came up with a plan:

• The Soak: They drowned the stale loaves in water and vinegar.

• The Garden Raid: They tossed in whatever was growing nearby—mostly onions and cucumbers.

• The Result: A meal that was as refreshing as it was resourceful.

Interestingly, the original “Artist’s Salad” (as the painter Bronzino called it in his poetry) didn’t contain a single tomato! While the world eventually fell in love with the red summer version, Panzanella is at its heart a seasonal canvas.

This Spring Garden Panzanella returns to its roots. By swapping the heavy vinegars for a tangy buttermilk dressing and trading tomatoes for crunchy snap peas and roasted asparagus, we’re celebrating the very best of the "no-waste" philosophy—with a Southern twist, of course.

Spring Garden Panzanella Salad

Yields: 4 servings Prep time: 20 mins | Total time: 30 mins

Ingredients

The Dressing

• 1 large garlic clove, finely grated

• 2 lemons, juiced (about 4 Tbsp.)

• ¼ cup buttermilk

• 4 Tbsp. extra-virgin olive oil

• Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper

The Salad

• 2 (1”-thick) slices round country-style bread (torn into bite-sized pieces)

• 4 Tbsp. extra-virgin olive oil (for toasting bread)

• 1 English hothouse cucumber (halved lengthwise and sliced)

• 6 oz. sugar snap peas (trimmed and thinly sliced on a diagonal)

• 1 bunch asparagus (trimmed and sliced on a diagonal into 2” pieces)

• 1 Vidalia onion (thinly sliced)

• 1 cup tender herbs (dill, mint, basil, or parsley)

• 4 oz. feta cheese, crumbled

Instructions

1. Prep the Bread: Heat 4 Tbsp. olive oil in a large skillet over medium. Add the bread pieces and cook, tossing occasionally, until golden and crisp (about 5–7 minutes). Season with salt and let cool.

2. Make the Dressing: In a large bowl, whisk together the grated garlic, lemon juice, buttermilk, and 4 Tbsp. olive oil. Season generously with salt and pepper.

3. Blanch (Optional): If you prefer your asparagus slightly tender, quickly blanch the pieces in boiling water for 60 seconds, then shock in ice water. Otherwise, keep them raw for maximum crunch! Or bake with a little olive oil, salt, and pepper for 10 minutes.

4. Assemble: Add the cucumber, snap peas, asparagus, and sliced onions to the bowl with the dressing. Toss to coat.

5. The Finish: Fold in the toasted bread, fresh herbs, and crumbled feta. Let the salad sit for 5–10 minutes before serving so the bread can soak up just a little bit of that dressing.

Pro Tip: This salad is best eaten the day it’s made, but if you want to prep ahead, keep the toasted bread in a separate container until right before serving!

Variations: Suggest adding grilled shrimp or chicken for subscribers looking for extra protein. This is a great way to make it a full meal.

Don’t forget to hit the Subscribe button if this recipe made you hungry!

Subscribe now

This week, as the world’s best golfers take on Harbour Town Golf Links, we’re looking back at the visionary who saved the trees, protected the land, and put Hilton Head on the map

Subscribe now

Before Hilton Head was a world-class destination, it was a quiet outpost known only to a few hundred residents. Charles Fraser didn’t just build a resort; he pioneered a “harmonious partnership” between nature and architecture that still defines the island today. From saving the Liberty Oak to building a “folly” of a lighthouse, Fraser’s stubborn genius paved the way for the RBC Heritage.

By the mid-1950s, Hilton Head Island was a place the modern world had largely forgotten. It was a quiet, rural outpost of 500 residents—mostly farmers, oystermen, and timbermen—accessible only by ferry and governed by the rhythmic pull of the tides. But in 1956, a bridge spanned the water, and with it came a young Yale Law graduate named Charles Fraser. He didn’t just bring a blueprint for a resort; he brought a radical philosophy that would rewrite the rules of American development.

While other coastal developers of the era were busy bulldozing dunes and laying down rigid, grid-like streets, Fraser envisioned something different: a “harmonious partnership” between nature and architecture.

• The Curve of the Road: Instead of clearing ancient oaks, Fraser mandated that roads bend and weave around them. His devotion to the canopy was so fierce he famously spent $50,000—a small fortune at the time—to save the Liberty Oak during the construction of Harbour Town.

• The Camouflage of Home: He pioneered “Sea Pines Style,” requiring homes to be built with natural wood shingles and earth-toned palettes. The goal wasn’t to dominate the landscape, but to disappear into it.

• A Gift to the Future: In a move that stunned real estate moguls, he set aside 605 acres of prime development land to remain perpetually wild. Today, the Sea Pines Forest Preserve remains the heart of the island.

The Birth of a Classic

By 1969, Fraser was ready to show the world his creation, but he needed a stage. He founded the Heritage Classic, the only PGA TOUR stop in South Carolina. Skeptics once again scoffed; the event was scheduled for Thanksgiving weekend on a brand-new, unproven course called Harbour Town Golf Links.

From “Folly” to Landmark

Perhaps the greatest symbol of Fraser’s stubborn genius is the Harbour Town Lighthouse. When he proposed a red-and-white striped beacon with no actual navigational function, it was mocked as “Fraser’s Folly.” Critics saw a waste of money; Fraser saw a landmark that would give the island an identity.

Today, that “folly” is the most recognized image in South Carolina, standing tall over the 18th green where the world’s elite golfers still compete for the coveted Plaid Jacket.

Charles Fraser once famously said, “I’m interested in making money, but I’m also interested in history, architecture, trees, and birds.” As the RBC Heritage returns this week, it’s clear that his interest paid off. He didn’t just build a resort; he proved that if you listen to the land, the world will eventually come to listen, too.

My Connection to Hilton Head Island

During the 80s and 90s, we lived on Plantation Drive in Sea Pines, just a short bike ride to Harbour Town. Well, the story of how we got there is one of those family tales that gets better every time I tell it - mostly because it’s completely true. It all started with my husband, who never met a stranger, never passed up a conversation, and never turned down a good breakfast. One morning in 1979, he was sitting in the café at the old Sea Island Motel in Beaufort, having eggs and grits and probably charming the waitress, when he struck up a conversation with the man at the next table.

That man was Charles Fraser. Yes, the Charles Fraser—visionary, Sea Pines founder, wearer of white pants and topsiders before Memorial Day, and a man who could sell ice to an Eskimo.

Naturally, my husband and Charles hit it off. By the time their second cup of coffee rolled around, they were already talking business, nature preserves, and the Lord only knows what else. By the time the check came in, Cloide had been sold. And me? Well, let’s just say I was informed that we were moving from Beaufort to Sea Pines on Hilton Head sometime soon.

Cloide became a Vice President at Sea Pines, which meant he did a lot of things in a polo shirt, khaki pants, and top siders, and always seemed to be having more fun than anyone else. But his real love—besides me, of course, was sport fishing.

For years, long before moving to Sea Pines, he kept his boat docked in Harbour Town Marina, where he became something of a fixture. During Heritage week, while the other bigwigs were busy chasing golfers and real estate deals, Cloide was busy hosting them. Arnold Palmer used to come aboard his boat every year. They’d drink scotch, talk golf and fishing, and—of course—end up doing a business deal. Because that’s who he was. You came for the cocktail, some fresh shrimp, and left with a signed contract.

Thanks for stopping by. You are invited to become a subscriber and never miss a story. Sending love and best wishes for the best Heritage Week ever!!!

Subscribe now

Share

Cruising down Highway 17—the Ocean Highway—is more than just a drive; it’s a rite of passage. You haven’t truly arrived in the Lowcountry until the hum of the tires is met with the rhythmic crack of a shell and your floorboard is littered with peanut shells. That’s evidence of a roadside stop. From the battlefields of the Civil War to the halls of the Carter White House, the boiled peanut is the humble, briny soul of the South. But to get it right, you have to look for Green (green peanuts). They’re the best.

I often wondered who made boiled peanuts famous. Historical accounts over time have claimed that no one knows who first boiled peanuts. Some credited Confederate soldiers with popularizing boiled peanuts in the South. Johnny Cash, the Kingston Trio, and other artists performed the American Civil War-era folk song “Goober Peas.” The lyrics involve battle-weary servicemen eating a lot of “delicious goober peas” and looking forward to more when they arrive home.

Share

Subscribe now

Boiled peanuts didn’t gain wide acceptance until the early 1900s. In 1915, African American agricultural scientist George Washington Carver started his famous research on how peanut crops could fill cotton fields ravaged by boll weevils. His studies led to the United States becoming one of the world’s top producers of peanuts. A year later, Carver published a bulletin outlining 105 ways to prepare peanuts, including boiling them for soup. By then, Africans in America had been boiling peanuts for decades. With peanuts suddenly in the spotlight, whites took notice of boiled goober peas. Like recipes for yams, cornbread, stewed collards, and barbecue ribs, boiled peanuts were so delicious that they became another celebrated Southern specialty, traced to African American culture.

During the Jimmy Carter Administration, we had “Presidential Peanuts.”

We can’t talk peanut stories without Jimmy Carter. While he was a peanut farmer by trade, his presidency took the “Southern snack” national. He famously served peanuts at the White House, but the story goes that some Northern dignitaries were utterly confused by the boiled variety served at his campaign stops. They didn’t know whether to peel them or eat the shell (a common “rookie” mistake that still provides endless entertainment for locals watching tourists at roadside stands today).

If you don’t cook your own, you’ll need to know the best places for finding the tastiest while traveling along the coast.

Since Hwy. 17 stretches from Virginia down through Florida, I’ve taken notes on the most reliable spots to grab a bag.

Of course, South Carolina is the “Peanut Belt,”- the heart of boiled peanut country. Look for hand-painted signs on the side of the road, but also look for established favorites.

Burden Creek Boiled Peanuts in the Johns Island/Charleston Area is known for “craft” peanuts. They offer unique flavors like Garlic and “Badass” spicy. Sometimes you can find them at local shops and stands near the intersection of Hwy. 17 and the Main Rd. heading toward Kiawah/Seabrook. Inspired by previous generations of backyard boilers in their bloodline, they have a passion for producing the best craft boiled peanuts in the Lowcountry.

Their motto: Boiled, Briny & Badass!

As you head north out of Charleston toward Georgetown, you’ll pass several seasonal roadside stands. Look for the See Wee Outpost near Awendaw, a classic general store that almost always has a hot pot going strong. It’s my favorite stop along this stretch of Hwy. 17. Going inside is a “must.” Head toward the hot shelves loaded with biscuits and stuffed with either country ham or sausage. All biscuits are made from scratch, as light as angel’s wings, and gently browned to perfection. Take several for the road and an extra bag for peanut shells.

Keep in mind that “green” freshly harvested peanuts are the very best for making boiled peanuts. In the summer months, the Mount Pleasant Farmers Market and stands near Pawleys Island are gold mines for green peanuts.

Heading south on Hwy. 17, you’ll wind through the marshlands of the Georgia coast. Look for Davis Produce in the Savannah/Tybee area. While it’s a short hop off 17 onto the road to Tybee, this place is a local legend. They are famous for their spicy and regular batches.

Vidalia Peanut Company offers its products in local gas stations and convenience stores along the corridor. In the rural stretches between Richmond Hill and Darien, look for the steaming pots and pull over to one of the roadside stands. If a stand says they have “Green Peanuts,” stop immediately. These are fresh from the ground and have a much better texture than those made from rehydrated dried peanuts.

The next time you see a hand-painted sign or a plume of steam rising from a roadside pot near Awendaw or Tybee, pull over. Grab a bag, ask for an extra plastic sleeve for the shells, and don’t forget the napkins—it’s going to get messy. In that signature pop of salty brine, you aren’t just tasting a snack; you’re tasting centuries of Southern history, from the resilience of the Peanut Belt to the simple joy of a summer afternoon on the porch. As they say in South Georgia: I brake for boiled peanuts."

Subscribe now

Lee Bros. Boiled Peanuts (considered the Gold Standard)

(Makes 4 lbs.)

1½ cups kosher salt, plus more to taste
4 gal. water
2 lbs. shell-on raw peanuts or 3 lbs. green peanuts

In a large (10- to 12-quart) stockpot, stir 1/2 cup salt into two gallons of water until the salt dissolves, then add the peanuts. Use a large dinner plate or two to help submerge the floating peanuts. Allow to soak for eight hours or overnight. (This step saves a little time boiling, but you can skip if needed. If you’re using green peanuts—which are freshly picked—you may also skip this step.)

Drain the soaking water and add two gallons of fresh water and the remaining cup of salt to the pot of peanuts. Note the level of the water on the side of the pot. Bring to a boil. Lower the heat and simmer, covered, for six to eight hours (two to three for green peanuts), keeping the water in the pot within an inch or so of its original level with regular additions of water, until the peanuts are about as soft as a roasted chestnut.

Once the peanuts have boiled for three hours (one hour for green peanuts), sample them to check their texture and salinity. Remove a peanut, and when it is cool enough to handle, crack open its shell and taste the kernel, slurping some brine with it. If the peanut crunches, it should be cooked further. If the brine lacks enough salt, add more to taste; if it is too salty, remove a portion of the water and replace with the same volume of fresh water. Allow the pot to boil for another hour before testing again. Sample every hour until they are pleasantly yielding and as salty as a good pickle.

When the peanuts are cooked to your satisfaction, turn off the heat and allow them to cool in the pot for an hour (30 minutes for green peanuts). When cool enough to handle, drain the water and eat immediately. If not eating, store the shell-on peanuts in a sealed container in the refrigerator or freezer. Boiled peanuts will keep for about seven to 10 days in the refrigerator and up to six months in the freezer.

Chef’s Note:

■ Pod pick: Get Valencia peanuts (usually slender, with three or four kernels per pod and red skin on the nut) for the best boiled peanuts. Spanish and Virginia varieties are not as tasty and are more starchy.

■ Seeing green: Purchase fresh-picked green peanuts when they’re in season. Small, immature ones are often tender enough that they can be eaten shell and all.

■ Spice it up: Add a tablespoon of Zatarain’s Crab Boil seasoning for Cajun-flavored peanuts. For a savory taste, try boiling them with a smoked ham hock or neck bone.

For a fun fold shelled boiled peanuts into vanilla ice cream with a swirl of maple syrup.

Oh, my. It’s delicious!

Thank you for standing with me as a guardian of our heritage. You are doing more than just supporting a newsletter; you have committed to the preservation of this great region through art and story. Love to all, Pat

Subscribe now

At 124 Abercorn Street in Savannah, the neoclassical tea sets and gilded banisters of the Owens family have long served as icons of Southern elegance. But a profound transformation is underway. Under the ambitious Slavery and Freedom Project, this National Historic Landmark has moved beyond the “big house” myth to offer a rare, unfiltered look at the complex lives of everyone who resided within its walls.

The first change is in the name itself: now the Owens-Thomas House & Slave Quarters. On today’s tours, the “darkest corners” of the home are finally being bathed in light. The restored butler’s pantry, the damp working cellar, and the scullery now receive as much curatorial attention as the grand parlors. Through interactive exhibits, visitors are introduced to the individuals who truly kept the house running: Emma, the nanny; Diane, the cook; and Peter, the butler.

What truly distinguishes this site, however, is the preservation of the original slave quarters. Here, the ceilings are painted “haint blue”—a vibrant West African tradition brought to the Lowcountry to ward off evil spirits. It is a poignant reminder of a culture maintained under the weight of constant surveillance. By centering these stories, the museum ensures that the lives of those forced to labor are told with the same detail and dignity as the family they served.

The site now stands as a living museum of “foodways,” architecture, and social history—a stark illustration of how the wealth of the American South was built upon the labor and cultural resilience of enslaved Africans. In the kitchen, located in the basement, women like Emma and Diane balanced the demands of an elite white family with the traditions of their own heritage.

Subscribe now

As the primary cook, Diane was responsible for preparing sophisticated “high-style” meals that displayed the wealth of George Owens. Her work involved a fusion of English, French, and Lowcountry influences:

• Luxury Desserts: She likely made items like English puddings and “fromage of pineapple” (a type of chilled cheesecake). These required expensive ingredients like exotic fruits and ice, which were a significant status symbol.

• Local Seafood: Savannah’s coastal location meant Diane frequently prepared oyster pies, shrimp, and various local fish.

• Plantation Produce: She cooked with ingredients brought in from the Owens’ rural plantations, including mutton, okra, potatoes, figs, and peaches.

• Rice Dishes: Rice was a staple cash crop for the Owens family; Diane would have prepared it in savory forms or as sweet rice puddings

One of her hallmark dishes was Sweet Rice Pudding, a dessert that utilized the region’s “white gold”—rice that required hours of careful fire management to ensure the delicate custard never curdled.

While Emma’s primary role was caring for the Owens children, she was also tasked with specific culinary duties that required great skill:

• Marmalade: Records specifically mention Emma being instructed to make marmalade from sour oranges grown on the family’s plantations. This was often given as a gift to the family’s friends.

In the urban slave quarters, Diane and Emma’s personal diets were vastly different from what they served in the main dining room. Their cooking was a matter of survival and cultural preservation:

• Rations: They were typically given weekly rations of cornmeal, salt, and a small amount of pork (often the less desirable cuts like ham hocks or neck bones).

• The “Task System”: Because Savannah utilized the “task system,” enslaved people could sometimes grow their own small “truck gardens” or fish in the nearby river once their work was done. They likely cooked collard greens, black-eyed peas, and turnips seasoned with their small pork rations.

• Gullah-Geechee Influence: Their cooking laid the foundation for what we now call Soul Food—stews flavored with peppers and thickened with okra, a technique brought from West Africa.

Only in the past decade have American museums begun to confront this chapter of history directly. In its new permutation, the Owens-Thomas House & Slave Quarters joins iconic landmarks like Andrew Jackson’s The Hermitage and Thomas Jefferson’s Monticello in offering a complete and truthful narrative of how the nation’s wealthiest and most disenfranchised lived in intimate, troubled proximity.

Closer to home, it aligns with a growing movement of heritage-focused experiences, including Footprints of Savannah, Underground Savannah Tours, and the Pin Point Heritage Museum. Together, they ensure that the cooking traditions and cultural contributions brought forth by enslaved Africans are recognized as the very foundation of what we now call “Southern” cuisine.

Diane’s Lowcountry Sweet Rice Pudding

In the 19th-century kitchen of the Owens-Thomas & Slave Quarters, rice was more than a staple—it was a symbol of the region’s wealth. Diane prepared this custard-style pudding using “white gold” from the family’s plantations, creating a dish that balanced elegance with the soulful flavors of the Lowcountry.

Ingredients

• 1 cup long-grain rice

• 1 quart whole milk

• 3/4 cup sugar

• 4 large eggs

• 2 tbsp butter, melted

• 1 tsp freshly grated nutmeg

• A pinch of salt

Method

1. Prepare the Base: Cook the rice in water until very tender, then drain thoroughly.

2. Create the Custard: In a large bowl, whisk the eggs and sugar until pale. Gradually stir in the milk, melted butter, nutmeg, and salt.

3. Combine: Fold the cooked rice into the custard mixture, ensuring the grains are well-distributed.

4. Slow Bake: Pour into a buttered deep ceramic dish. Bake at 325°F for 45–60 minutes. The pudding is done when the center has a slight, delicate jiggle and the top is a soft golden brown.

Service: Best served warm, perhaps with a dollop of fresh cream, just as it might have been when moved from Diane’s hearth to the Owens’ mahogany dining table.

Here is your invitation to become a guardian of Lowcountry heritage. Subscribe now. Preserve the soul of this region through art and storytelling. I’m honored to have you here.

Subscribe now

Primarily made in the Pennsylvania Dutch communities in the east, early versions of Shoofly Pie can be traced back to cookbooks published at the turn of the 20th century. This pie was so popular that it made its way into community and church cookbooks throughout the country.

Read more

Forget everything you know about modern grocery aisles, where strawberries appear in January as if by magic. Step back to a time when your kitchen was a battlefield, the seasons were your enemy, and "dessert" was a daring act of survival! During the Great Depression, there were those who were hungry and had to be resourceful.

Imagine it’s the tail end of a brutal 18th-century winter. Your fruit cellar is a graveyard of empty jars. Your family is craving something sweet, but all you have is a jug of vinegar, some dusty flour, and a prayer.

Enter the Desperation Pie. These weren’t just recipes; they were culinary alchemy. Grandma didn’t need a harvest to create a masterpiece—she used her wits to turn “nothing” into “everything.”

These pies are born from sheer grit and pantry staples.

More Than a Meal—It’s a Legacy

While these pies became legends during the Great Depression and World War II rationing, they were actually perfected by agrarian pioneers as far back as the 1740s.

Before refrigeration and high-speed trains, “desperation” was the mother of invention. Every bite of these pies is a tribute to the resourceful cooks who refused to let a long winter or a lean pantry keep them from the joy of a flaky crust and a sweet filling.

They may have been called "make-do" pies, but one taste will tell you they are anything but second best.

Of course, the biggest reason these pies are seeing a comeback is simply that they’re delicious, and everyone loves discovering something so tasty! Necessity is the mother of invention, after all, and these pies show culinary invention at its best.

Subscribe now

Become a Guardian of Southern Culinary History

Every story I share is a brick in the wall protecting the heritage of the South. To help me keep this history alive and ensure this “visual heartbeat” never fades, please consider upgrading to a paid subscription. Together, we can preserve the soul of this region through art and story.

From today’s Vintage Kitchen - Desperation Pies: (recipes below)

Shoo, Fly Pie

Legendary Vinegar Pie

Cinnamon Sorghum Custard Pie

Shoo, Fly Pie is considered a "desperation pie"—a dessert made from pantry staples like molasses, flour, and brown sugar when fresh fruit wasn't in season.

Most food historians trace the pie back to 1876. It is believed to have evolved from a “Centennial Cake” created in Philadelphia to celebrate the 100th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence.

Because the cake was crumbly and sticky, home cooks began baking it in a pie crust to make it easier to eat by hand, especially for farmers taking it into the fields. By the 1880s, it had fully transitioned from a cake into the pie we know today.

The "Shoo, Fly!" Theory: The most popular legend says that because the pie is made of sweet, sticky molasses, it would attract flies while cooling on windowsills. Bakers would have to constantly "shoo" the flies away.

Because Shoofly pie relies on shelf-stable ingredients (molasses, lard/butter, and flour) and originally didn’t even require eggs, it became the go-to winter dessert for pioneers and farmers. When the fruit cellars were empty at the end of a long winter, “desperation” led to the creation of this rich, spiced masterpiece.

Shoo, Fly Pie

• 1 single-crust pie shell - Instructions below

  Ingredients

• 1 1/2 cups (6 3/8 oz.) all-purpose flour

• 1/2 cup brown sugar

• 1/2 tsp. ground cinnamon

• 1/4 tsp. kosher salt

  1/2 cup (4 oz.) cold unsalted butter, cubed

  1 cup molasses

• 3/4 cup boiling water

• 1 tsp. baking soda

• 1 egg, lightly beaten

• Whipped cream for garnish, optional

  Pie Crust

  Place the crust inside a greased 9-inch deep dish pie dish. Cut excess dough, leaving a 1/2-inch overhang. Preheat oven to 425 degrees. Fill the pie shell with dried beans.

Fold overhang under itself, creating a thicker ring of crust around the pie's edge. Crimp edge as desired. Chill in refrigerator until firm, about 30 minutes.

Bake in preheated oven on lower rack until edges are golden, about 15 minutes. Remove parchment and pie weights; continue baking until lightly golden, about 5 more minutes. Cool on a wire rack to room temperature, about 30 minutes.

Make pie filling:

Decrease oven temperature to 350 degrees. Stir together flour, brown sugar, cinnamon, and salt in a medium bowl until all ingredients are evenly distributed.

Add butter:

Add butter and using your hands or a pastry cutter, and incorporate butter into dry ingredients until no pieces of butter remain and the mixture resembles cornmeal. Set aside.

Make molasses mixture:

In a separate bowl, whisk together molasses, boiling water, and baking soda until molasses is fully dissolved. Once cooled down, add beaten egg and whisk to incorporate.

Fill the prepared crust by adding 1/3 cup of flour mixture first:

Using a ladle or a measuring cup with a handle, gently scoop or pour the molasses mixture into the pie shell.

Finish pie topping:

Sprinkle the reserved flour mixture evenly across the entire surface of the pie.

Bake pie:

Bake in a preheated oven until the center of the pie is set, about 40 minutes. Cool completely on a wire rack, about 2 hours. Serve at room temperature with whipped cream, if desired.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

This is the one that truly feels like magic because it uses a sharp, savory liquid to create a bright, fruity dessert!

The Legendary Vinegar Pie

Commonly known as “Mock Lemon Pie,” this recipe was a lifesaver for pioneers who didn’t have access to citrus trees. The vinegar provides a sharp tang that, when baked with sugar and eggs, mellows into a flavor remarkably similar to lemon custard.

This pie became very popular during the Great Depression when fresh fruit was scarce. Despite its name, vinegar pie does not taste strongly of vinegar. It has a lovely mild lemon flavor.

This Vinegar Pie is a super simple, old-fashioned pie that’s been around for years! It gets its flavor from a little bit of vinegar and is topped with whipped cream and a sprinkle of nutmeg!

Ingredients

• 1 refrigerated pie crust

• 4 large eggs

• 1 1/2 cups (310g) sugar

• 1/4 cup (56g) butter, melted

• 1 1/2 tbsp white vinegar

• 1 tsp vanilla extract

• whipped cream, optional

• Nutmeg

Instructions

1. Place the pie crust in a 9-inch pie pan and crimp the edges. Pre-bake according to the package directions for temperature and time. Use pie weights to keep the crust from puffing up too much when baking.
2. Adjust oven temperature to 350°F, if needed.
3. In a large bowl, combine the eggs, sugar, butter, vinegar, and vanilla extract. Whisk well to combine, then pour into pre-baked pie shell.
4. Bake pie for 30-40 minutes, or until pie is set but a little jiggly.
5. Allow pie to cool to room temperature, then refrigerate pie until cool and firm, and serve.
6. Serve pie with whipped cream and a sprinkle of nutmeg. Don’t skip the nutmeg!

Cinnamon Sorghum Custard Pie

This pie delivers tons of complex flavor. There are caramel notes from the coconut sugar and sorghum syrup, and the unmistakable bite of cinnamon.

1 (9”) unbaked pie shell

1 c. sorghum syrup (can substitute with molasses)

3 large eggs

2/3 c. coconut sugar (you may substitute light brown sugar or granulated sugar)

½ c. buttermilk

½ c. sour cream

½ tsp. salt

1 tsp. cinnamon

½ tsp. vanilla extract

8 gingersnap cookies, ground to dust in a food processor

1 egg whipped with 1 tsp. of water for egg wash

Line a pie pan with pie crust and place it in the freezer until you’re ready to bake. Set a rack in the center of the oven and preheat to 425°.

In a large bowl, whisk together the sorghum syrup and eggs until smooth. Add the coconut sugar (or granulated sugar), buttermilk, sour cream, salt, cinnamon, and vanilla. Beat with a whisk until smooth.

Add the crushed cookies—either stirring them in or scattering them in the bottom of the pie crust and pour the filling in after. Pour the pie filling into the pie crust, brush the exposed crust with egg wash, and slip the pie into the oven. Bake for 10 minutes.

Lower the heat to 350° and continue to bake until the pie is well puffed all over and set, about 40 minutes more. A little wiggle in the center is fine, but it shouldn’t be sloshy.

Chef’s Note: The internal temperature of the pie must be 180°. The eggs do not set up at the same temperature as they would usually.

Remove the pie to a rack to cool for about an hour and then chill. Serve cold, at room temp, or slightly warm with a big old scoop of vanilla ice cream or whipped cream.

Share The Diary of Southern Lifestyle Author Pat Branning

Subscribe now

In the heart of Savannah’s Historic District, the recipe for the signature dessert at The Olde Pink House remains a carefully guarded secret. It is a dish that defies simple description: a rich, tea-infused custard with a bright whisper of citrus, nestled in a buttery shortbread crust and crowned with a generous dollop of chantilly cream. For locals and travelers alike, a meal within those iconic coral-pink walls isn’t complete without a slice.

There is a specific kind of magic that happens in this Savannah kitchen. It’s a place where history isn’t just found in textbooks, but in the seasoned cast iron and the heirloom recipes passed down through generations of storied chefs.

In this story, I take us inside the coral-pink walls of one of the South’s most legendary institutions to uncover the secret of a dessert that shouldn’t work, yet somehow defines a region: the Sweet Tea Buttermilk Pie. It is a story of ‘desperation’ turned into decadence, reminding us that with a little creativity and a lot of heart, even the simplest pantry staples can become what memories are made of. Pull up a chair, pour a glass of ice-cold tea, and enjoy a slice of Savannah.

The Art of “Making Do”

The story of Sweet Tea Buttermilk Pie is a quintessential Southern tale of resourcefulness. It represents the perfect marriage of historical “make-do” spirit and a creative nod to the region’s favorite beverage. While the buttermilk pie has deep ancestral roots, the infusion of sweet tea is a brilliant modern twist popularized by Southern food writers and elevated by Lowcountry chefs.

The “Desperation Pie” Origins

Traditional buttermilk pie belongs to a humble category known as “desperation pies.” These recipes were born of necessity during the Great Depression and World War II, when fresh fruit was a luxury and expensive ingredients were scarce.

• The Heritage: The recipe likely arrived with English settlers who brought custard-style baking to the American South.

• The Evolution: In the Carolinas and Texas, where buttermilk was abundant and inexpensive, the recipe transformed. What began as a way to stretch a pantry during hard times evolved into a celebrated regional masterpiece.

• Why is The Olde Pink House Pink?

  It might surprise you to know that the house was never actually meant to be pink! When James Habersham Jr. built the mansion in 1771, he wanted a classic, sophisticated white exterior. The “pink” was actually a construction fail that turned into a local legend:

  • The Original Design: The house was built using soft, native red clay bricks, which were then covered in a thick layer of white plaster.

  • The Problem: Savannah’s humid, rainy climate caused the red pigment from the bricks to “bleed” through the white plaster, staining it a soft, rosy hue.

Editor’s Note: While you can’t get the secret recipe from the Pink House vault, the key to a great Sweet Tea Pie at home lies in the “steep”—using high-quality black tea to infuse the buttermilk before whisking in the sugar and eggs. See instructions below on “how to steep.”

The earthy notes of black tea cut through the intense sweetness and creamy richness of the buttermilk custard, celebrating two of the most iconic Southern culinary symbols in a single dish.

Every story I share is a brick in the wall protecting the heritage of the Lowcountry. To help me keep this history alive and ensure this "visual heartbeat" never fades, please consider upgrading to a paid subscription. Together, we can preserve the soul of this region through art and story. I am grateful you are here. Thank you for stopping by. Pat xoxo

Recipe below is from the Village Creek online cookbook. It’s a Easter favorite enjoyed through the generations. Enjoy!

Subscribe now

Sweet Tea Buttermilk Pie

Ingredients

• 1 cup buttermilk

• 1 tbsp. loose black tea leaves ( see instructions below)

• 1 prepared piecrust, unbaked (either a frozen ready-made 9-inch crust or refrigerated dough)

• ½ tsp. grated lemon zest

• ¾ cup sugar

• 2 tbsp. all-purpose flour

• 2 large eggs

• ¼ tsp. Pure vanilla extract

• ¼ cup melted unsalted butter

• Fresh mint leaves, for garnish

Preparation

Warm the buttermilk in a small saucepan over medium-low heat just until it begins to steam. (Don’t allow it to boil or it may curdle.) Remove from heat and stir in the tea leaves. Let it sit for 1 hour, then strain out the tea and reserve the infused buttermilk.

Preheat oven to 425°F. If using refrigerated dough, line a shallow 9-inch pie pan with it, trimming excess and crimping edges.

Use a fork or whisk to combine the lemon zest, sugar, and flour in a large bowl. In another bowl, whisk together the eggs, vanilla, infused buttermilk, and melted butter. Add the buttermilk mixture to the flour mixture and whisk to combine well.

Pour the filling into the shell. Bake for 10 minutes, then reduce the heat to 350°F and bake until the edges puff and the center is no longer liquid, about 30 minutes longer. If the crust begins to overbrown before the center is set, reduce the heat to 300°F. Cool to room temperature on a wire rack. Then refrigerate for at least 2-4 hours before serving. It is best served cold. Garnish with mint leaves before serving.

Chef’s Note:

Getting the "steep" right is the secret to moving this pie from a standard custard to a true Sweet Tea Buttermilk Pie. Since buttermilk is thick and acidic, it behaves differently from water or milk when extracting tea flavors.

1. Watch the Temperature Closely

• The Danger Zone: Buttermilk curdles easily if boiled. You want to warm it over medium-low heat just until it begins to steam (around 110°F to 120°F).

• The “Touch” Test: If you don’t have a thermometer, the buttermilk should feel like very warm bath water—hot to the touch, but not stinging.

2. Choose the Right Tea

• Loose Leaf vs. Bags: Loose leaf tea generally offers a more nuanced flavor, but if you use bags, you’ll need about 3 to 4 standard black tea bags for every cup of buttermilk to get a robust flavor.

• The “Orange Pekoe” Standard: For that authentic Savannah taste, use a classic Southern black tea like Luzianne or Lipton. If you want something more sophisticated, an Earl Grey adds a lovely bergamot citrus note that pairs perfectly with the lemon zest.

3. The “Long Steep” Method

• Duration: I recommend steeping for one full hour. Because buttermilk is cold and viscous, the tea needs more time to release its tannins than it would in boiling water.

• Room Temp: Let it steep on the counter, not in the fridge. The warmth helps the extraction process.

4. Strain and Squeeze

• Maximize Flavor: When straining out the leaves (or removing bags), give them a gentle squeeze. This releases the concentrated “liquor” of the tea, which contains the most potent flavor and color.

• Consistency Check: After straining, ensure the buttermilk is smooth. If any tiny tea particles remain, that’s fine—they often look like beautiful little “vanilla bean” flecks in the finished custard.

A Note on Texture

If your buttermilk looks a little thicker after the steep, don’t worry! That’s a natural reaction to the tea’s acidity. Just whisk it vigorously with your eggs and sugar to ensure a silky-smooth filling.

Leave a comment

Subscribe now

“I hope that someday I will be remembered for helping people everywhere understand that Southern food should be considered among the most revered cuisines of the world. These heirloom ingredients and culinary traditions are part of American history, not just the history of the South.” Chef Sean Brock

Food is medicine, after all - it can heal the soul, help mend a broken heart, or calm a busy mind.

To step onto the porch at 76 Queen Street is to enter a sanctuary where the past is not merely remembered, but honored and tasted. In the heart of Charleston’s French Quarter, where the very cobblestones seem to hum with the lingering warmth of the Carolina sun, Husk Restaurant stands as a beautifully restored sentinel of the South.

Husk's soul is defined by a strong, almost sacred dedication to the land. As founder Chef Sean Brock famously declared, “If it ain’t from the South, it ain’t comin’ in the door.” He is one of the most passionate culinary champions of the American South. This is more than just a sourcing policy; it’s a heartfelt tribute to the farmers, foragers, and watermen who have spent generations drawing flavor from the creeks and fields across the South.

Cornbread has to have the tang of good buttermilk and a cast-iron skillet with some smokin’ hot grease from Allan Benton’s smokehouse bacon. Use very high heat so hot that the batter sizzles as it hits the pan.

The allure of Southern food—the reason it is sought after by travelers from across the globe—lies in its deep connection to the soil and the stories of those who tended it.

• Heritage Preservation: There is a specific emphasis on using indigenous and nearly extinct crop varieties, such as Jimmy Red corn (sourced from Marsh Hen Mill), heirloom beans, and heritage meats.

• Traditional Techniques: The kitchen prioritizes authentic methods, such as using wood-fired ovens and cast-iron skillets to achieve specific textures and flavors, like the caramelized crust on their signature cornbread.

Housed in a beautifully restored Victorian-era home (circa 1893) at 76 Queen Street, the menu at Husk is a map of our heritage. Often, the menu is written daily to reflect exactly what is in season, often featuring nearly extinct varieties of corn, beans, and heritage meats.

It was an unusually hot afternoon in late August when I drove to Charleston to meet with the chef who was receiving accolades from across the country. As I walked into the kitchen, he was creating the sauce for his legendary Husk Cheeseburger. It had become so famous that it is often cited as one of the best burgers in America. It’s known for its obsessive attention to detail and nostalgia-driven flavor.

To walk through the prep space is to see the soul of the menu in its rawest form. It’s a living library of the Lowcountry, where the air is thick with the sharp tang of pickling spice and the earthy scent of aging beef.

If you can’t snag a dinner reservation, the Bar at Husk next door is housed in a separate historic structure and offers the legendary cheeseburger and an incredible bourbon list.

This story would not be complete without a note from the late chef, author, and champion of local fresh ingredients, Edna Lewis:

While I was there, Chef Brock shared the secret to his famous cornbread. Here it is.

Sean Brock's Husk Cornbread

First of all: The secret to a true Southern cornbread isn't just the cornmeal—it’s the cast iron. You want that skillet screaming hot, much like the summers in the ACE Basin, so the batter sizzles the moment it hits the fat. It’s started on the stove and finished in the oven. The caramelized crust is achieved when you cook cornbread in this unbeatable way. There’s a soft crumb inside, and a tangy sourness that comes from the buttermilk. Never add flour or sugar, and use lard as the fat. Simply use the right corn, and there’s no need to add sugar. My choice is Jimmy Red cornmeal from Marsh Hen Mill in Edisto.

The resurgence of this grain was famously championed by Brock, who worked with Greg Johnsman, owner at Marsh Hen Mill, to bring this nearly extinct variety back to the Southern table.

Ingredients

4 ounces bacon

2 cups cornmeal (I use Jimmy Red cornmeal from Marsh Hen Mill, Edisto)

1 teaspoon kosher salt

1/2 teaspoon baking soda

1/2 teaspoon baking powder

1 1/2 cups whole milk buttermilk

1 large egg

Directions

1. Preheat the oven to 450°F.

2. Put a 9-inch cast-iron skillet in the oven to preheat for at least 10 minutes.

3. Run the bacon through a meat grinder or very finely mince it.

4. Put the bacon in a skillet and cook over medium-low heat, stirring frequently so that it doesn’t burn, until the fat is rendered and the bits of bacon are crispy, 4 to 5 minutes.

5. Remove the bits of bacon to a paper towel to drain, reserving the fat. You need 5 tablespoons of bacon fat for this recipe.

6. Combine the cornmeal, salt, baking soda, baking powder, and bits of bacon in a medium bowl. Set aside.

7. Reserve 1 tablespoon of the bacon fat and combine the remaining 4 tablespoons of fat, the buttermilk, and the egg in a small bowl.

8. Stir the wet ingredients into the dry ingredients just to combine; do not overmix.

9. Move the skillet from the oven to the stove, placing it over high heat.

10. Add the reserved tablespoon of bacon fat and swirl to coat the skillet.

11. Pour in the batter, distributing it evenly. It should sizzle.

12. Bake the cornbread for about 20 minutes, until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean. Serve warm from the skillet.

Subscribe now

Husk serves as a reminder that the South’s culinary power doesn't come from reinvention, but from a profound respect for what was nearly lost. It is a celebration of the Lowcountry's resilience, served one plate at a time.

Leave a comment

This is the classic “Southern Gentleman” look. Pairing a seersucker suit with a bow tie and white bucks is the gold standard for traditional summer elegance, especially for events like the Kentucky Derby, Easter, or garden weddings.

Amidst the heavy, jasmine-scented air of the Coastal South, seersucker transcends mere fashion to become a vital necessity of the climate. It is a brilliant bit of engineering disguised as a suit—the puckered weave acting as a personal cooling system against the relentless afternoon sun. In these latitudes, wearing seersucker is how one maintains a composure as cool as a glass of iced tea, ensuring that even as the mercury rises, your poise remains as undisturbed as a walled garden on Church Street.

If you’ve ever spotted a man in a pale blue striped suit looking like he’s about to either argue a high-stakes land deal, defend a scoundrel in a court of law, or sell you an alarmingly expensive jar of artisanal strawberry jam, you’ve encountered the “Proper Puckered Protocol.”

To a Southern gentleman, a seersucker suit is more than clothing—it is a badge of belonging. It signals a man who understands that while the humidity may be relentless, his standards are not. Even if his only mission is to navigate a summer wedding and consume his body weight in chilled shrimp cocktail, the suit still lends him a level of unearned gravitas.

It whispers of old porches, slow-dripping ceiling fans, and a family history that probably involves at least one legendary bird dog.

The Unwritten Laws of the Calendar

In the South, the transition into seersucker is not dictated by the thermometer, but by the church bulletin. There are strict, unwritten laws governing its appearance. You do not wear it before Easter Sunday, and you must retire it moments after Labor Day. To wear seersucker in October—even if it is a blistering 98 degrees—is to signal to the community that you have lost your grip on the moral fabric of society.

The Bowtie Mandate

In the court of public opinion, a seersucker suit without a bowtie is considered “unfinished business.” While a standard necktie is technically legal, it is often viewed as a lack of commitment.

The bowtie serves a functional purpose: in 100% humidity, a traditional necktie acts as a silk weighted blanket for your chest, trapping heat exactly where you don’t want it. The bowtie, however, allows for maximum ventilation.

A Final Note on the “Haspel” Heritage

It’s worth noting that we owe this puckered salvation to Joseph Haspel, the New Orleans merchant who popularized the suit in 1909. Legend has it he once jumped into the Atlantic Ocean to prove the suit’s resilience, then wore it to a dinner party that same night. That is the ultimate goal of the Protocol: to be completely submerged by life (or a humid afternoon) and still come out looking like you’ve got everything under control.

Subscribe now

May this region dwell in your heart forever. Regardless of whether you are just passing through or you decide to become a paid subscriber, I am honored to have you here. Paid subscribers have access to all recipes, stories, and archives.

Warmly,

Pat xoxo

Easter is the perfect time for Emma’s Strawberry Cake. Local berries are ripening in fields across the landscape, enticing me to bake. This recipe is from a friend who is a 4th-generation beautiful baker, and it quickly became a favorite in my family.

When you stop and think about it, what we bake and why we bake falls into several categories. Mostly, I think of the ones gathered around my table, but it’s also about sharing with those I love to nurture and celebrate them. Baking is for the love of giving, receiving, and sharing.

This is an old Southern classic made with a gelatin-infused mix. Coconut and toasted pecans elevate it to a new level. Before you begin mixing, be sure to bring all ingredients to room temperature.

Recipe below from the Village Creek Cookbook. Enjoy!

Emma’s Strawberry Pecan Cake

Robin Mutz, Habersham, SC

• Makes three 8-inch layers

  This is an old Southern classic, made from a mix infused with gelatin. Coconut and toasted pecans elevate it to a new level.

  Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

• 1 box white cake mix (Duncan Hines)

  1 box strawberry Jell-O (mix dry)

  1 cup Wesson oil

  ½ cup whole milk

  4 room temperature eggs (one at a time)

  1 cup frozen strawberries, thawed (I purchase these in the frozen food section at Publix)

  1 cup unsweetened coconut

  1 cup pecans, broken

• Icing

  1 stick of butter

  1 box confectioners’ sugar

  ½ cup drained strawberries

  ½ cup pecans, chopped fine

  ½ cup coconut

  Cream butter and sugar. Add other ingredients and spread on the cake layers.

• Cook’s Note: Be sure ingredients come to room temperature before you begin with any cake.

  Emma used Duncan Hines Moist Deluxe Classic White cake mix, which is my favorite packaged cake brand. You can make it into a layer cake using two 9-inch round cake pans or three 8-inch pans.

• Spray pans generously with Bakers Secret. Here’s a hint about how to make your cake layers more even. Use a measuring cup to divide the cake batter evenly among the pans. Level the batter by lifting the pans off the counter a few inches and tapping them gently on the work surface to deflate any large bubbles. Do this several times, and the batter will spread out and bring air bubbles to the surface, which will help to make your cake layers bake more evenly.

  Sidebar:

  Toast the pecans:

  No matter how you pronounce pecan, it’s a Southern staple. They’ll keep in the freezer for up to 2 years in a sealed bag and can be thawed and refrozen repeatedly. The flavor is greatly intensified when toasted. Preheat your oven to 350 degrees, line a baking pan with parchment, spread the pecans on the baking sheet, and toast for about five minutes until you can smell the aroma. Store in a ziplock bag in the freezer.

  • Share The Diary of Southern Lifestyle Author Pat Branning

    Share

    Subscribe now

Subscribe now

A Vision of the Lowcountry

To understand the soul of the Lowcountry, one must eventually look through the eyes of Jonathan Green. Widely considered one of the most important contemporary painters of the Southern experience, Green’s work is a vibrant, color-saturated love letter to his Gullah Heritage.

I first had the pleasure of meeting Jonathan at his home on Daniel Island. My editor and I visited him with a specific vision: to see whether we could weave his evocative art into a collection of recipes and stories that define this region. Seeing his work in person is a transformative experience—the colors aren’t just seen; they are felt.

Raised by his grandmother in Gardens Corner, South Carolina, Green was the first person of Gullah ancestry to receive formal professional art training, graduating from the School of Art Institute of Chicago. His paintings, often described as “narrative realism,” do more than document a vanishing way of life; they celebrate the dignity, spirituality, and communal joy of a people who have preserved West African traditions for centuries.

During my visit, he leaned in and said, “I want you to follow me to the kitchen.” There, he pulled back cabinet doors to reveal rows of jars: vegetables grown, harvested, and canned by his family and friends in Yemassee. “This,” he said, with a quiet, unmistakable glow of resonance, “is what I am most proud of.”

Pat Conroy’s foreword to "Gullah Images: The Art of Jonathan Green" (1996) is a celebrated piece of writing that beautifully captures the essence of Green’s work. Conroy, a fellow South Carolinian who deeply understood the Lowcountry, wrote about Green with a sense of profound reverence.

• The “Child of the Veil”: Conroy opens by noting that Jonathan Green was born with a caul (a rare fetal membrane covering the head), which in Gullah culture signifies a child touched by magic and destined for a special role. Conroy refers to him as “the child of the veil,” whose destiny was to bring “inordinate grace” to his community through art.

• The Storyteller: He describes Green as the rarest of 20th-century painters because he “dares to tell a story.” Conroy argues that there is a narrative flow in Green’s work that binds it to a central theme of Gullah life.

• One of the most quoted lines in the foreword, Conroy writes:

  "The Gullah people depicted in Jonathan Green’s world look like they got dressed while staring at rainbows."

• Mythic Grandeur: Conroy compares Green’s work to the ancient cave paintings in France, noting that they both possess a "mythic grace and nameless grandeur." He credits Green with discovering himself as an artist by "narrowing his vision so finely" to the life along Highway 21, from Gardens Corner to Yemassee.

  In meeting him on Daniel Island, I saw exactly what Conroy meant—that his work is a shining, authentic record of a culture that refuses to be forgotten.

• Share The Diary of Southern Lifestyle Author Pat Branning

  Subscribe now

Thank you for joining me on this journey. If my work resonates with you, I invite you to upgrade to a paid subscription and help safeguard this legacy for those who follow. May this region we call the Lowcountry dwell in our hearts eternally. As one of the final unspoiled sanctuaries along the Eastern Seaboard, its soul must be preserved through the timeless union of art and the written word.

While my role is that of the storyteller and chronicler, your support ensures these stories—and the art that defines them—reach the generations that come after us.

Preserve the Legacy. Join the mission.

Subscribe now

As a thank you for being a Guardian of the Lowcountry, I am sharing a recipe that celebrates the spirit of that Yemassee kitchen—a dish that feels like “staring at a rainbow” on a plate.

The Heirloom Okra & Tomato Stew (A Tribute to Gardens Corner) This recipe isn't just about ingredients; it’s about the patience of the harvest and the stories told while snapping beans and peeling tomatoes...Heirloom Okra & Tomato Stew

This dish is the essence of the Lowcountry summer. It’s a “slow” recipe—one that requires you to watch the colors change in the pot, much like watching the light shift over a marsh. When done right, the okra stays bright, and the tomatoes melt into a rich, savory velvet.

Yields: 4–6 servings

Prep time: 20 mins | Cook time: 45 mins

The Ingredients

• 1 lb Fresh Okra: Sliced into rounds (throw away the woody stems).

• 4 Large Heirloom Tomatoes: Coarsely chopped (keep those juices!).

• 3 Strips Thick-Cut Bacon: Diced (or 2 tbsp butter for a vegetarian version).

• 1 Large Yellow Onion: Finely diced.

• 1 Green Bell Pepper: Diced (the “Holy Trinity” starts here).

• 2 Cloves Garlic: Minced.

• 1 tsp Smoked Paprika: To mimic that wood-fired kitchen scent.

• Salt and Cracked Black Pepper: To taste.

• Optional: A dash of hot sauce or a pinch of sugar if the tomatoes are very acidic.

The Method

1. The Base: In a heavy cast-iron skillet or Dutch oven, fry the diced bacon until crisp. Remove the bacon bits with a slotted spoon and set aside, leaving the drippings in the pan.

2. The Sauté: Add the onion and bell pepper to the hot fat. Sauté over medium heat until softened and translucent (about 5–7 minutes). Add the garlic and cook for just 1 minute more until fragrant.

3. The “Rainbow”: Stir in your sliced okra. Cook for about 10 minutes, stirring occasionally. You want the okra to take on a little color and lose that initial “slickness.”

4. The Melding: Pour in the chopped tomatoes and all their juice. Add the smoked paprika, salt, and pepper. Lower the heat to a simmer.

5. The Patience: Cover the pot and let it simmer gently for 30–40 minutes. The tomatoes will break down into a thick sauce that coats the okra. If it gets too thick, add a splash of water or vegetable stock.

6. The Finish: Taste and adjust your seasoning. Stir the crisp bacon bits back in just before serving.

Pat’s Serving Suggestion: Serve this over a bed of fluffy white rice (preferably Charleston Gold) with a side of hot cornbread. As you eat, remember Jonathan’s words: this isn’t just food—it’s what we are most proud of.

Leave a comment

There was a time when Lady’s Island wasn’t the manicured landscape it is today. Before the developers arrived with their blueprints for Dataw and before the neon glow of a Publix and Harris Teeter hummed in the distance, the island belonged to the marsh, the tomato fields, and men like Mr. Ed.

Ed lived over on Lucy Creek, a man carved out of Lowcountry salt and red clay. One morning, he pulled up to my porch in a Chevy pickup that was more rust than paint, the engine idling with a rhythmic, metallic cough. His forearm, tanned to the color of polished teak, rested heavily on the window frame. He looked less like a neighbor and more like a character stepping out of a Steinbeck novel—a man who spent his dawns chasing wild turkey and his afternoons wrestling life from the dirt.

“I’m starting the list,” he called out, his voice gravelly but neighborly. “You want in?”

I leaned against a porch column, a newcomer still trying to decipher the unwritten codes of the South. “The list for what, Ed?”

“Vidalias,” he said, as if the word itself were a secret password. “The only onion in the world you can eat just like a Gala apple.”

I scoffed, my skepticism as thick as the humidity. “An onion? Like an apple? Ed, I’ve spent my life crying over cutting boards. I’m not sure I’m ready to eat an onion for fun.”

Ed didn’t argue. He just smirked—a slow, knowing grin that suggested he knew something about the earth that I hadn’t learned yet. He reached into the flatbed, pulling a heavy, twenty-pound burlap sack toward him. He reached in and produced a golden, flat-topped bulb.

With the practiced grace of a surgeon, he flicked open a pocket knife from his bib overalls. The blade caught the afternoon sun as he peeled back the papery, translucent skin. Then, without a blink or a flinch, he took a deep, crunching bite.

I waited for the recoil. I waited for his eyes to well up or his face to contort. But there was nothing but the sound of a satisfying snap.

“Sign me up,” I whispered.

I didn’t realize then that I wasn’t just buying a bag of onions; I was buying my way into a Southern rite of passage that involved old yellow school buses, pantyhose storage, and the best fried rings I’d ever taste.

Who remembers the battered old yellow bus that sat in the Sea Pines Circle? It was there for years, providing us with fresh Vidalias.’ Now it’s a legend.

Subscribe now

A huge hug and a “thank you” to paid subscribers for supporting my work. All are welcome to subscribe and have access to archives with recipes and stories. Just click Subscribe:

Bon Appétit! And thank you for stopping by. With love to all. Pat

From the Village Creek section of our Tides of Tradition cookbook:

1. Pat Conroy’s Pickled Shrimp with Vidalias and

2. Best Fried Onion Rings, Vidalia, Georgia

Pat Conroy’s Pickled Shrimp

“When a good friend dies, I take two pounds of shrimp for the mourners. When a great friend dies, I go to five pounds. When I die, I fully expect all the shrimp in Beaufort to be pickled that day.” — Pat Conroy

The Marinade

• 1 cup thinly sliced yellow onion (Vidalia preferred)

• 4 bay leaves, crumbled

• 2 oz bottled capers, drained and coarsely chopped

• 1/4 cup fresh lemon juice

• 1 cup cider vinegar

• 1/2 cup olive oil

• 1 tsp garlic, minced

• 1 tsp salt / 1 tsp celery seeds / 1 tsp red pepper flakes

The Seafood

• 2 lb large shrimp, peeled and deveined

Instructions

1. Mix the Base: In a large ceramic or glass bowl, whisk together all ingredients except for the shrimp.

2. The Quick Boil: Bring a large pot of water to a rolling boil. Salt the water abundantly. Add shrimp and cook until just pink—about 2 minutes.

3. The Infusion: Drain and immediately transfer the hot shrimp to the cold marinade.

4. Chill: Bring to room temperature, cover tightly, and marinate overnight in the fridge. Serve chilled in a glass compote bowl.

The Secret to Vidalia Fried Onion Rings

The “Apple of the South” makes the world’s best fried rings. Follow these three rules for the perfect crunch.

3 Tips for Crispy (Not Greasy) Rings

• Temperature is Everything: Aim for 365°F to 375°F. Too cool and they become oil-soaked sponges; too hot and they burn before the onion softens.

• The “Dry-Wet-Dry” Secret: Dust your raw rings in a little dry flour before the batter. This acts as a “primer,” so the batter doesn’t slide off in the oil.

• The Rack over the Towel: Never drain on a flat paper towel (it creates steam). Use a wire cooling rack to let air circulate.

Ingredients

• Onions: Several large Vidalia® Onions, sliced into rings

• Dry Mix: 1 cup flour, 1 tsp salt, 1.5 tsp baking powder

• Wet Mix: 1 egg yolk (reserve white), 3/4 cup milk, 1 Tbsp oil

• The Secret Weapon: 1 egg white, beaten to soft peaks

• Frying: Peanut Oil (High smoke point of 450°F)

Instructions

1. Prep the Batter: Whisk the dry mix in one bowl and the wet mix in another. Combine them until smooth.

2. The Fluff: Gently fold the beaten egg white into the batter. This creates a light, airy coating.

3. Fry: Dip flour-dusted rings into the batter and drop into the hot oil. Fry until golden brown.

Subscribe now

The air over the Sea Islands didn’t just hang; it hummed with the weight of secrets held in the shadows of darkness. Joe felt it in his marrow long before the sky began to transition from a pale, hazy blue to a palette of violet, apricot, and deep crimson. Snowy egrets and blue herons took flight in silence, heading toward their nighttime rookeries.

Subscribe now

Read more

As spring warms the marshlands, excitement hits the docks. The shrimp are soon coming, but first, there is the arrival of the soft-shell crab. It’s the most fleeting, frantic season that requires the utmost precision. When the blue crabs begin to shed their hard outer armor, they become a delicacy as ephemeral as a Lowcountry sunset. To catch them at their peak, watermen must be vigilant:

• The Shedding Process: Crabs are monitored around the clock in “shedding tables” or large, aerated tubs.

• The Critical Window: Once a crab sheds, it only stays “soft” for a few hours before the saltwater begins to harden a new shell.

• The Tubs: They are carefully hand-picked and placed into moss-lined tubs or shallow trays, kept cool and damp to halt the hardening process until they reach the kitchens of the Sea Islands.

  Some of you who have been around for a while will remember the Bistro at Pineland Mall.

  Subscribe now

Consider becoming a paid subscriber, support my work, and never miss a recipe or a story.

I learned this recipe years ago when it was the featured dish on the menu at Le Bistro at Pineland Mall, Hilton Head. It has since closed, and the entire shopping center has been rebuilt. I used to go there for dinner every week during soft shell crab season. Owner Faisal Dahnoun gave me this winning recipe to be featured in my latest book. I have been forever grateful. It’s pure magic on a plate and one of my most requested recipes. Bon appetit!

Simply hit the subscribe button and have access to the archives and all the latest recipes. Get ready. Soft Shells are coming soon!

Subscribe now

Sautéed Soft Shell Crab with Lemon Caper Sauce

Courtesy of Le Bistro, Hilton Head Island

Ingredients

• 1/2 cup all-purpose flour

• Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper

• 4 large soft-shell crabs, preferably jumbo or “whale” size, cleaned

• 1 stick (8 tablespoons; 120 g) unsalted butter, divided

• 1 tablespoon drained capers

• 2 tablespoons (30 ml) fresh lemon juice from 1 lemon

• 1 tablespoon minced flat-leaf parsley leaves and tender stems

• Directions

  1. In a shallow bowl, season flour with salt and pepper. Lightly dredge crabs in the seasoned flour.

  2. In a 10-inch stainless steel skillet, melt 4 tablespoons butter over medium-high heat until foamy. Add crabs, shell-side down, and cook until browned and crisp, about 3 minutes; be careful, as soft-shell crabs sometimes pop in the pan. Flip crabs and cook until crisp and golden on the bottom side, about 3 minutes. Transfer crabs to paper towel-lined plates and season lightly with salt.

  3. Add remaining 4 tablespoons butter to skillet and melt until foaming. Lower heat to medium and cook until butter turns a medium-brown color, about 2 minutes.

  4. Add capers and cook until lightly crisped, about 1 minute. Add lemon juice, swirl to combine, and remove from heat.

  5. Stir parsley into pan sauce, season with salt, if needed. Transfer crabs to a serving platter and spoon sauce on top. Serve right away.

  I like to serve this with Heirloom Stone Ground Grits, slow-cooked with sharp white cheddar to catch every drop of lemon-butter sauce.

• Subscribe now

Crab Boy believed memories were like the tides. Sometimes they rushed in with a resounding roar to knock you over. At other times, they gently washed over you, tugging you back to halcyon days that keep on getting better. His fondest memory from growing up in Broomfield was crabbing deep in the salt marshes of Cowan Creek. He often walked the back roads to Lucy Point at night, where the creek was known for a deep drop-off at low tide. His blackness got lost in the shadows of low-hanging moss-covered live oaks, his existence all but visible to white folks.

Subscribe now

The swampy swallows of his birth are where he found his greatest joy. He lived in a timeless world, walking dirt roads from farm to farm. He passed by ramshackle creekbank fish camps where Southern men get to be boys all over again. Rustic cottages on remote strips of shoreline are where they leave time and responsibilities behind to watch waves crash on barren shores, and stars twinkle in the midnight sky. No paved roads, no electricity, no bars, no grocery stores.

The allure is being surrounded by nature with only the stillness of the night. His obsession was crabbing. As dawn breaks, Brown Pelicans and Oystercatchers fly overhead, and the lapping of an occasional wave against the dock breaks the silence. He knew Trunkards Inlet on the southern tip of Capers Island is where the blue crabs were most plentiful. Crab Boy found pure joy sitting on the creek bank with a simple chicken neck on a string, pulling something from the water that nourished both body and soul.

It all came to a tragic end one night while crabbing deep in the maze-like marshes of Brickyard Creek. A fierce marsh creature took crab boy - sometimes interpreted as a large alligator or simply the dangerous, shifting tides. Because he died an unnatural and untimely death, he is said to have become a “droll,” a specific type of Gullah spirit. In Lowcountry folklore, a droll is the restless, unhappy ghost of a child who remains trapped in the location where they died. Visitors to this part of the island have long reported hearing the cries of a young man echoing through the marshes at night, forever searching for the crabs he loved to catch.

The Mourning at Village Creek

When word of his disappearance got back to the crab-picking sheds, the air, usually filled with the sharp, salty scent of steam and the clinking of knives, turned heavy. The rhythmic “thwack” of the picking knives stopped. For the first time in memory, the workers sat in silence. Miss Gracie, being the matriarch, led the first mourning song. It wasn’t a funeral dirge, but a slow, lowcountry spiritual that hummed through the floorboards.

Miss Livvie broke down in sobs of sorrow. "Don’t you fret none o'er that water, chile," Miss Gracie said, resting a heavy hand on Livvie’s shoulder. "That boy, he part of the ebb and flow now. He ain't gone; he just moved to the deep water. Long as we 'member to leave a piece of the harvest, he gonna keep watch over all of us walkin' these muddy banks. This ‘eah life done been plan by Gawd’s hand, chile.”

He was the child of the creek, a fixture of their dawn and dusk. They began to sing the old spirituals a little louder, hoping the melody would carry across the vast marshlands and guide his wandering soul toward a peace the shifting tides had denied him.

For days, the steam rising from the crab pots seemed thicker, more somber, as if the water itself were mourning. They listened to the wind whistling through the spartina grass, no longer hearing just the breeze, but the faint, haunting echo of a string splashing somewhere over yonder in the dark water. He will forever be searching for the crabs he loved to catch.

The Ritual at the Edge of the Marsh

“He’p me with this basket, Livvie,” Miss Gracie whispered, her voice like the dry rustle of palmetto leaves.

They walked to the end of the weathered dock, where the tide was pulling hard toward the Atlantic. Miss Gracie reached into the day’s haul and pulled out a “Jimmy”—a massive blue crab with brilliant cerulean claws, the kind the boy used to prize above all others.

She set it gently on the top piling. “Eat well, little soul,” she murmured. “And stay clear of the deep holes tonight.”To honor his spirit, the pickers began a tradition. They would leave one prime blue crab - the largest of the catch - on the edge of the dock every evening. By morning, the crab would always be gone, though no tracks were ever left behind.

Subscribe now

If this region dwells in your heart as it does mine, I invite you to upgrade to a paid subscription. By doing so, you become a formal guardian of this legacy, allowing me to continue documenting the stories, flavors, and vibrant heritage of our home for generations to come.

I am grateful to have you on this journey.

With gratitude,

xoxo Pat

Local chefs emphasize lots of crab and very little binder. They use just enough binder to hold the lump crab together without masking its sweetness.

Lowcountry Crab Cakes

Serves 6

INGREDIENTS:

1/2 cup mayonnaise, Duke’s preferred
1 egg white
Zest and juice of 1/2 lemon
1 Tbs. sliced chives
1 Tbs. fresh thyme leaves
1 lb. jumbo lump blue crab meat, gently picked carefully for shell
Sea salt and freshly ground white pepper
2 Tbs. bread crumbs made in a food processor from crustless white bread
1 Tbs. unsalted butter
1 Tbs. grapeseed oil

DIRECTIONS:

Preheat the oven to 400°F.

Combine the mayonnaise, egg white, lemon zest, lemon juice, chives, and thyme leaves in a large bowl and mix. Gently fold in the crab meat. Season to taste with sea salt and white pepper. Form into six patties and dust them with bread crumbs.

Put the butter and grapeseed oil in a 10-inch cast-iron skillet. Heat them over medium-high heat until the butter melts, stir, and continue to heat until they shimmer. Working in batches if necessary, add the crab cakes and sear each side for about two minutes until golden brown. Remove to a rimmed baking sheet and place the crab cakes in the oven until warmed through, about seven minutes.

Subscribe now

A traditional Lowcountry Remoulade I’ve enjoyed over the years is this zesty, creamy companion to Southern crab cakes. While every family has their "secret," the hallmark of a true coastal South remoulade is the use of Duke’s Mayonnaise and a hit of horseradish for that signature kick.

Lowcountry Zesty Remoulade Sauce

This version balances the tang of lemon and mustard with the heat of Creole spices.

• 1 cup Duke’s Mayonnaise (the Southern standard)

• 2 tbsp Creole or Whole-Grain Mustard

• 1 tbsp Prepared Horseradish (adjust based on your heat tolerance)

• 1 tbsp Fresh Lemon Juice

• 1 tsp Creole Seasoning (like Tony Chachere’s)

• 1 tsp Worcestershire Sauce

• 1/2 tsp Smoked Paprika (for color and depth)

• 1 tbsp Fresh Chives or Green Onions, finely chopped

Preparation Tips

• Chill Time: For the best results, whisk all ingredients together and let the sauce sit in the refrigerator for at least 30 to 60 minutes. This allows the flavors of the horseradish and spices to fully develop.

• The “Crunch” Factor: If you like a bit more texture, many coastal cooks stir in 1 tbsp of finely minced capers or dill pickle relish.

• Spiciness: If you want a “Charleston-style” burn, add a few dashes of Louisiana-style hot sauce (like Crystal or Texas Pete).

Pro Tip: In the Lowcountry, this sauce isn’t just for crab cakes. Locals often serve it alongside fried green tomatoes or chilled peel-and-eat shrimp.

Subscribe now

Every time I mention cooking fish, somebody leans in and whispers like we’re discussing a family scandal. A funny thing has happened in modern kitchens: people who will happily roast a whole chicken, wrestle a twenty-pound Thanksgiving turkey into submission, or smoke a brisket for fourteen hours will suddenly panic when faced with a perfectly innocent piece of fish.

Subscribe now

Read more

Shortly after moving to Beaufort decades ago, Sundays became days that were never about getting anywhere fast. They were about letting the day wander where it pleased. I’d rumble past porches painted haint blue - because I was told evil spirits were never welcome to supper.

A little further down the road, past the Lady’s Island Baptist Church, I noticed Miss Dora by the side of the road. She’d hitchhike every week dressed to the nines, with her big-brimmed straw hat, high-heeled shoes, and a matching handbag. She was only 5 feet tall at the most and a sight to behold. I rolled the window down. “Get in, I’ll give you a ride home.” With a big smile, she climbed into the front seat. “I’m on my way home to get lunch ready,” I said, but I don’t know how to cook anything around here. I want some of that fresh flounder and maybe try out the blue crab, but what do you do with it?”

“Youse southern and youse can’t cook?” Don’t make no sense. Dora shook her head and looked at me with a long, puzzled gaze. A Gullah native from Brickyard Point who grew up beside her Grandma, Tulu, who, for as far back as she could remember, was the cook at the Sea Island Motel. Dora had learned a thing or two about Lowcountry cookin’.

“Tulu and I - weese goin’ up to the dam. Come on and go with us,” said Dora. Next thing I knew, I was carrying a bunch of smelly chicken necks, a few bamboo poles, and some string.” Dora grew up beside Grandma Tulu, cleaning and cookin’ at the Sea Island Motel.

“Youse gonna tie one dem chicken neck to de string and tie ‘em to dat pole obuh deh, den slowly leh de line down eenta de ribbuh,” Tulu say. “In no time tall, you bin feel dat fus’ lil’ tug on de line as de crab start fuh nibble. Pull ‘em ebah so kehful.” Then Dora grabbed my net and scooped ‘em up and tossed ‘em into the tall white bucket that sat on the riverbank. Once we filled it nearly to the brim, we took those rascals kicking and crawling back to the kitchen.

Subscribe now

Once back at the house, Tulu got the pots boiling, tossed in the blue crabs, cooked ‘em till their shells were a rusty red color, drained them, then dumped them onto the newspaper-covered porch table. We all sat around, picked every crab with a big bowl in the center - a gracious plenty. Tulu was so happy she’d start to sing an old gospel hymn with her hands held high toward heaven.

Once we finished cleaning all the crabs, I looked over at Dora and said, “How would you like to come to the big house and work for us?” How much are you making downtown at the motel? Whatever it is, I’ll double it. You won’t even have to hitch a ride to town; you can walk from here.”

The look on her face said it all. And just like that, Dora became my housekeeper and confidant for the next 8 years.

Dora knew everyone in town - cause everyone ate breakfast at the Sea Island. Rumor was that a big trial was taking place over at the courthouse. I don’t know exactly what or how she knew, but somehow she knew there was a hint of rot beneath the floorboards and secret ledgers in the salt air. I figured she must have heard or seen something suspicious.

Once I arrived home, Cloide was standing by the window, watching the humid Lowcountry air press against the glass. The weight of the Pleasant Point kickback scheme by the New York banker felt like an anchor; despite his powerhouse legal team, the "big city" money felt like an invincible tide.

The team had arrived in town not with swords, but with a blizzard of white paper, intending to bury the truth under a mountain of motions and mandates. These were vultures in silk suits, circling the case with a calculated intent to pick it clean through endless, hollow filings.

While the Lowcountry moved by the tides, these men moved by the ledger, seeking to choke the life out of the claim with a relentless, mechanical flood of documentation.

Dora noticed Mr. Cloide and bravely approached him. “You sees ‘em.” She referred to the banker’s team. “Them monsters don’t stay in them swamps or in pluff mud.” She adjusted her starched apron, her eyes fixing on him with a sudden, piercing intensity. She leaned in, her voice low, "This ain't a fight for a gavel," she said softly. "This is a fight for da spirit of da thing. If you want to sway da wind and make sure this trial lands in your favor, you need to go see Dr. Buzzard. Fred Buzhardt knows the law of the land, but Dr. Buzzard knows da law of the root. One works da books, the other works da hearts. If I were you, I'd be making a trip to St. Helena once da sun sets."

Dora moved in closer to say, “Justice don’t always move in a straight line.”

And so it was. The story unfolds, showing a system protected by corruption that hides behind tradition and respectability. At a time when Southern narratives are being reconsidered and reclaimed, this book challenges romanticized ideas of honor and civility by revealing the cost of silence and how deeply corruption can be embedded beneath genteel manners, historic preservation, and Southern hospitality.

At its heart, No Safe Harbor is not simply a crime story. It is about how power protects itself, how communities close ranks, and how danger in the South often arrives with charm, invitation, and impeccable manners.

The narrative blends memoir, social history, and how the High Sheriff, with his buddy Dr. Buzzard, ruled through witchcraft, superstition, and their own investigative reporting.

Perdita’s was more than just a restaurant; for decades, it was the “undisputed queen” of fine dining in Charleston. Tucked behind the 1740s brick walls at 10 Exchange Street in Charleston’s historic French Quarter, it defined the city’s culinary elegance from its opening in 1953 until its closure in the 1980s.

Today, the building remains a living piece of history and resilience, surviving centuries of hurricanes and earthquakes. It is currently a focal point forUndiscovered Charleston, where Chef Forrest Parker leads tours that connect the physical “ghosts in the brick” to the modern flavors of the Lowcountry. This era marked the birth of the refined Lowcountry aesthetic.

Perdita’s was internationally recognized in an era( 1953- the late 20th Century) when Charleston was not yet the global “foodie” destination it is today.

• Prestigious Honors: It was one of only five restaurants in the United States to receive the Medal of Honor from the Council of Paris, a testament to its French-influenced excellence.

• The Vibe: It was known for its handwritten nightly menus and “old-school” luxury. The interior featured heavy wood columns, white tablecloths, and velvet-lined booths.

• Signature Dishes: Its menu was a blend of high French technique (think truffles and foie gras) with local Lowcountry ingredients. Famous dishes included Perdita’s Fruits de Mer (a bouillabaisse-style stew) and Lump Crab Cakes Remick.

• Lump Crab Cakes Remick was created about 1920 at the Plaza Hotel in New York City and named in honor of the then-current president of the stock exchange, William Remick. With our abundance of local blue crab, the recipe was quickly adopted as our own. The recipe itself is wonderfully simple but quite elegant.

Recently, former SC Chef Ambassador Forrest Parker shared the authentic recipe for The Baked Crab Meat Remick from his personal archives. This historic gratin was the essence of Perditas, the midcentury Charleston landmark. This was the era when it shared a pedigree with the finest dining rooms in Paris. The dish has the sweetness of our Atlantic blue crab but is sharpened by a glaze of mustard and tarragon vinegar, then amplified by the smoky salt of crisp bacon. It’s a dish that’s elegant, coastal, and must be unhurried.

Perdita’s was internationally recognized in an era( 1953- the late 20th Century) when Charleston was not yet the global “foodie” destination it is today.

• Prestigious Honors: It was one of only five restaurants in the United States to receive the Medal of Honor from the Council of Paris, a testament to its French-influenced excellence.

• The Vibe: It was known for its handwritten nightly menus and “old-school” luxury. The interior featured heavy wood columns, white tablecloths, and velvet-lined booths.

• Signature Dishes: Its menu was a blend of high French technique (think truffles and foie gras) with local Lowcountry ingredients. Famous dishes included Perdita’s Fruits de Mer (a bouillabaisse-style stew) and Lump Crab Cakes Remick.

Lump Crab Cakes Remick was originally created about 1920 at the Plaza Hotel in New York City and named in honor of the them current president of the stock rxchange, William Remick. With our abundance of local blue crab the recipe was quickly adopted as our own. The recipe itself is wonderfully simple but nevertheless quite elegant.

• As of February 2026, Revival (located in the Vendue Hotel at 162 East Bay St.) is still very much a cornerstone of the Charleston dining scene, having recently been recognized as one of the best fine-dining spots in the world. However, their menu has evolved.

  The “Crab Cake Remick” Status

• Can you still get it?

  While it isn’t on the nightly menu, Revival at the Vendue Hotel is famous for its “Revival Through Time” program, where they rotate classic recipes from Charleston’s past. Because the Crab Cake Remick was such a staple for them for years, it occasionally returns as a seasonal special or for commemorative events.

• While Perdita’s Lump Crab Cake Remick—is no longer listed on their current standard dinner menu the kitchen has shifted focus to other historic “revivals,” most notably:

  • William Deas’ She Crab Soup: This is currently their flagship “history” dish. It uses the original recipe from the early 1900s, featuring lump crab, Amontillado sherry, and crab roe.

  • Lowcountry Pirlou: A heritage rice dish using Carolina Gold rice, lobster, and shrimp.

  • 

For the authentic recipe for Perdita’s Baked Crab Meat Remick we thank Chef Forrest Parker. Recipe below.

Perdita’s Baked Crab Meat Remick

This dish is a celebration of the era when Charleston’s culinary scene was as vast as the sea and proof that our local cuisine belonged on the international stage.

Ingredients

• 1 ½ pounds fresh white lump crab meat, carefully picked for shells

• 9 strips bacon, cooked until crisp and crumbled

• 1 ½ teaspoons dry mustard

• ¾ teaspoon paprika

• ¾ teaspoon celery salt

• 3 to 4 drops Tabasco, or to taste

• ¾ cup chili sauce

• 1 ½ teaspoons tarragon vinegar

• 2 ½ cups mayonnaise

Preparation

1. Step 1: Heat oven to 375 degrees. Divide the crab meat evenly among six shallow individual baking dishes or ramekins. Place in the oven to warm through, about 5 to 7 minutes.

2. Step 2 While the crab warms, prepare the glaze: In a medium bowl, whisk together the dry mustard, paprika, celery salt, and Tabasco. Whisk in the chili sauce and tarragon vinegar until combined.

3. Step 3: Gently fold the mayonnaise into the chili sauce mixture until smooth and uniform in color.

4. Step 4: Remove the crab from the oven and top each portion with the crumbled bacon. Spoon the sauce generously over the top of each dish, spreading it to the edges.

5. Step 5: Switch the oven to broil. Place the dishes on the top rack and broil until the glaze is bubbling and lightly bronzed, about 2 to 3 minutes. Serve immediately.