Scuppernog

Some of the best meals I’ve ever eaten have been in the American South.

Many regional culinary specialties come to mind when I think of Georgia--boiled peanuts, summer peaches, biscuits and gravy.

I never fail to marvel at the bounty of regional produce at the Farmers Markets there during the summertime. Tomatoes and watermelon and honey. Okra and cucumbers and fresh chicken eggs. The colors are so beautiful, the fragrances so luscious in the warm, humid air and soft morning light.

I love that people in the South are so polite. Last week, I spied some beautiful figs on the back table of one vendor. There were precious few baskets of them, and I had decided that one of them was to be mine. The farmer was attending to an elderly gentleman who was hard of hearing and selecting some tomatoes. They chatted cordially while he selected a dozen or so from the heirloom varieties. The vendor was comfortably unhurried, offering to package up the tomatoes in several smaller boxes to keep them from being crushed when the man carried them home.

Quite a small crowd had gathered around the farm stand during their transaction. The farmer had a choice selection of produce. My Yankee instincts threatened to kick in--to step forward, to start elbowing the newcomers, to throw around some money and threatening glances and challenge the crowd for the alpha stance.

Silly, silly Northerner.

No one rushed. No one pushed. No one tapped a foot or sighed impatiently.

And when the farmer was finished attending to the gentleman with the tomatoes, he helped him load the little boxes into his basket and bid him a good day.

When he looked up at the small crowd, I felt sheepish. I felt a bit like an outsider, like I stuck out, like I should let someone go ahead of me and observe the interaction for context clues.

After a few moments of speechless but courteous smiles were exchanged, I heard a voice beside me.

“I believe the young lady is next.”

I claimed my bag of figs, trying my best to savor the moment of chatting with the farmer and not to rush. I didn’t feel guilty for enjoying the lilting cadence of this interlude. This is what life in the South is supposed to be like. And when in Rome….

A line from an Indigo Girls song comes to mind: “When God made me born a Yankee, He was teasing.”

As I continued through the market, eating the figs out of hand, I stopped short at a vendor with baskets of peaches, cucumbers and some small, round things that I could not identify. They were about the size of cherry tomatoes, but had stubby, woody stems on them that made me think of cherries with closely trimmed stems. Their skins were tight, also like a cherry tomato, but they were greenish bronze and speckled with brown. After a few moments of contemplating them, I had to ask, “what are those?”

I had forgotten my manners. The farmer reminded me with his courteous greeting and answer.
“Good morning, ma’am. These here are scuppernogs. Those figs sure look delicious.”
I backtracked, wished him a good morning, and got back to the matter at hand.

“Scupperknob?” I asked.

“Scuppernog,” he corrected. “Sometimes called a muscadine. They are like big grapes.”

I had to have some.

With money in my hand, I was about to ask him for a basket, rushing the moment again. “Would you like to taste one?” he asked, unhurriedly, like he had all the time in the world. He held one out to me.

I held it close to my nose--it smelled like Fruit Loops. I gently squeezed the tight skin, and it yielded only gently, like a plump cabernet grape still on the vine. I put the whole thing in my mouth and held it between my left molars, cradling it with my tongue and my cheek as I gently bit down. The skin popped with a sweet juiciness, the thick, firm skin yielding to the softer flesh inside. For a brief moment it tasted like grape soda. I chewed gently; the tart, musky flavor of the skin balanced the sweetness of the fruit. Inside, a found a smaller slippery orb, more dense than the flesh closest to the skin--the source of the sweetness. At the very center was a small seed, like you would expect in a grape. I bit it gently and it crunched, still green. I found it bitter, but a surprising and unexpected finish.

I repeated the name to myself several times so I wouldn’t forget it. I wanted to look them up when I got home.

Scuppernog. Scuppernog. Scuppernog.

It sounded like a magical incantation.

But like many wonderful Southern foods, there isn't a lot of reliable information available on the internet for the Scuppernog, although a Google search led me to other names for the fruit including scuppernong, suscadine, and scuppydine.

And now that I've had a first hand experience with scuppernogs, I am finding reference to them everywhere--books like To Kill A Mockingbird and The Secret Life of Bees, recipes for jelly and salsa, and it is the official state fruit of North Carolina.

Perhaps I'll need to do some research of my own to learn more about this lovely fruit, which means going back to the Farmers Market, and getting more scuppernogs.

Eavesdropping on Nora and Maureen

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