Cornbread Confessions

By Ricky Fitzpatrick for The Creative South

I like cornbread. In fact, I love cornbread.

I may not always say it out loud, but I love it in a way that feels both emotional and slightly spiritual, like something that ought to be discussed in a testimony service.

And I’m not even particular about it.

It can be sweet or salty.
Skillet-thick or paper-thin.
Cut into wedges or fried into hush puppies.
Homemade or straight from a Jiffy box that’s been in the pantry since the Clinton administration.

If I had my druthers (and, generally speaking, I do), I’d always pick buttermilk cornbread, because that feels like the way my ancestors intended it. And I like the “tang”.

But I do not, under any circumstances, care for cracklin’ cornbread.

I know this is controversial. I know some folks will read that sentence and feel the urge to pray for me or sit back and say, “Well, bless his heart.”

But cracklin’ cornbread is, in my opinion, the culinary equivalent of a betrayal. A trap disguised as tradition.

I consider it a personal violation every time I bite into warm, soft cornbread and hit something that crunches like a roofing nail.

But even beyond that scandalous admission, I have something I’ve been hesitant to confess due to the risk of being escorted to the state line with my Southern Card confiscated:

Cornbread… is dry.

There. I’ve said it.

I love the taste of plain cornbread, truly I do, but I cannot abide the texture. It’s like eating delicious sand. Wonderful, flavorful, culturally significant sand. But still… sand.

Cornbread, as far as my mouth is concerned, needs company.

It thrives in beans, becomes noble in collards, finds purpose in chili, and reaches its full potential in a tall glass of milk… which is the closest thing the South has to a sacramental ritual.

I’ve put cornbread in Brunswick stew, vegetable soup, collard liquor, and all manner of “gravy.” And in each case, the cornbread was improved. Elevated. Moisturized back into the land of the living.

And before anyone gets too worked up: I am not insulting cornbread. I’m simply reporting the truth as my taste buds understand it.

Because cornbread is just not meant to be eaten alone. Cornbread is a team player. It’s the friend who shows up early, stays late, and never asks who drank the last of the sweet tea.

It belongs in the center of a table surrounded by every other Southern dish we love. It deserves beans and collard greens. It deserves its rightful swimming pool of soup. It deserves to be broken up into crumbs in a glass of buttermilk on a summer evening when the humidity is so thick the frogs are sweating.

Cornbread by itself is fine. But cornbread with something else is holy.

So yes, I’ve confessed my scandalous opinion. Yes, I have spoken aloud what many Southerners only whisper behind closed doors.

But even so, there is no food…none, not one…that carries the smell of Southern memory the way cornbread does. One whiff and I’m transported to church homecomings, family reunions, fish fries, potlucks, Wednesday-night suppers, and kitchens where cast-iron skillets were passed down like sacred relics.

And I cannot deny it: 

Cornbread is comfort.
Cornbread is culture.
Cornbread is Southern identity, baked at 425°.

Even if it does need a little milk now and then to wash it down.