I’m Fixing to Wipe the Frost Off the Pumpkin

I’m fixing to wipe the frost off the pumpkin.

That first frost on the pumpkin can conjure up two entirely different schools of thought, one being culinary and the other being amorous.

In my case it’s the culinary aspect of what takes place after that first frosty morning. It’s the collard greens. They just seem to have a deeper and more earthy taste to them after that first bite of frost.

The traditional way to cook greens is to boil or simmer them real slow with a piece of salt pork, a ham hock, a neck bone, or even a pig’s foot. This long and slow cooking tempers their tough texture and smooth’s out their bitter flavor as well as making them soft.

In Southern kitchens they are usually served with freshly baked corn bread or crackling bread, along with some baked sweet potatoes and buttermilk. Some folks think the pot likker, the highly concentrated, vitamin-filled broth that results from the long slow boiling of the greens is the best part.

My grandmother used to say, “Pot likker will cure what ails you and if nothing is ailing you, it will give you a good cleaning out.”

Some folks don’t care for the smell of collards cooking, but the reaction of that smell separates true southerners from wannabes.

There are varying recipes for cooking them. Beyond the necessary salt, some add a little sugar, or baking soda or bacon drippings. And of course we all drizzle a little hot pepper sauce on them when they are served.

But on to the amorous part of the frost on the pumpkin:

When the weather is hot and sticky there’s only time for work and worry

When the frost is on the pumpkin that’s the time for lovey-dovey

(anonymous verse)

There used to be no time for romance during the long hot harvest season, but a young man’s thoughts turned to love:

When the frost is on the pumpkin and the fodder’s in the shock,

And you hear the Kyouck and gobble of the strutting’ turkey-cock,

And the clacking’ of the guineas, and the clucking’ of the hens,

And the rooster’s hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;

O, it’s then the time a feller is a-feeling his best,

With the risin’ sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,

As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the stock,

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.

(James Whitcomb Riley, 1853-1916)

Me, I’m fixing to go check on my collard greens.