Stretch Cooking: Mush, ham and red-eye gravy

Several years ago, the world was overrun by a polenta craze. It was on the lips of all who spoke or wrote about food. Finally, one evening in a nice Italian restaurant, having read so much about the trendy re-discovery of this old Italian staple, I ordered a dish that featured polenta.

I was amused. Polenta was only a smoothed-out version of corn meal mush, with butter or cheese whirled in. As a kid, I ate a ton of corn meal mush, without the butter or cheese. I liked it lumpy, which was good, because that’s the only way my grandmother would make it. We ate it mostly for breakfast, with milk or syrup or bacon sprinkled over. Nothing was better, on mornings when the blue north wind railed at the window seams and sleet froze the screen doors shut. In later years, I found that mush went with almost anything, at any meal, any time of the day, as long as it was hot. When it cooled, it ceased to be mush, and could not be restored to mush.

What you could do with it then, was cut the cold mush into squares, and fry it. Note: This is not how you make a corn bread thang. This method would yield only squares of browned, hard mush, which weren’t bad, but offered neither the flavor or the texture of a corn bread thang, which is fried hot, not cold, mush.

Its filling power, its flexibility, and its ingredients – corn meal, salt, and hot water – make mush a classic in stretch cooking lore. I assume it existed in Italy all this time, but I never heard the word, “polenta,” until I was into my 50s. When I learned what polenta was, I was glad mush had hit the big time. If “mush” were introduced into the Italian consciousness as the trendy new “polenta,” it might acquire some cache there. It’s all in the marketing. “Mush: the New Polenta.” I can see it now.

I am craving mush right now because my old friend Ray, who can rattle silverware with the best of them, sent me an email yesterday asking about red-eye gravy. He thought I had once published a recipe for red-eye gravy, which is true. It is on page 13 of “Michael Grant’s Cookbook.”

Like mush, red-eye gravy isn’t a recipe so much as a technique. It is best to start with half-inch slices of ham with some fat on the edges. Trim the fat, and in a black skillet render the fat to produce a tablespoon or so of melted fat in the skillet. Or, if the ham is totally trimmed, use olive oil, just enough to give the ham a moist, not dry, surface to touch. Brown the slices on both sides over medium heat. In the best of all worlds, you will be cooking the famous, salty, country ham from the South, but plain old ham slices from CostCo work, too. While the ham is cooking, brew a pot of coffee.

When the ham is well-browned, set it aside and add to the skillet half a cup of the coffee and half a cup of water. Purists argue that strong black coffee, straight, is the only way to prepare red-eye gravy. But I don’t think the coffee should dominate the gravy. I like a balance between the coffee’s aromatic richness and the ham’s salty bite. In fact, I lean a little bit toward the salty bite. Stir the coffee and water to bring up the browned bits in the skillet. Increase the heat and cook the gravy until it bubbles. Lower the heat, return the ham to the skillet, and simmer the slices in the gravy for five minutes.

Here’s where the mush comes in. Red-eye gravy is great on biscuits and on grits, but spooning it onto hot mush, with the ham alongside, makes it hard not to go look for your Davy Crockett cap. Boil 3 cups of water, add a teaspoon of salt, and stir in a cup and a quarter of yellow corn meal. Turn the heat to low and stir the mush until it is thick and big heat bubbles rise and “plup” through the surface.

You should also try this mush with any braised meats, stews, chili, seafood stews, black-eyes and turnip greens. My God, what time is it?