Note: This interview is from April. I had the pleasure of seeing Bernard Herman speak not long before we all began isolating. I really enjoyed reading his book but had a hard time writing anything expository to go with this interview. The book makes a beautiful gift so I did my best to get this together for the holiday season. Please support independent booksellers.
Photographs care of The University of North Carolina Press
Summer is behind us, but thinking of the Eastern Shore puts me in a “late-July” mindset. Like many people who live on the “other side” of the bay, my experience of much of the Delmarva peninsula is a relatively narrow one. I was fortunate enough to grow up spending much of my summers in Chincoteague, where my grandfather was accepted among the fishermen.
In his little trailer, my extended family enjoyed lots of fish, tomatoes, corn, and so much more of what the region had to offer. My appreciation of these tastes and the associated memories left a lasting impression. The sound of tree-frogs at night still lulls me into a peaceful and safe state of mind.
More recently I began venturing out on long drives down through Virginia’s Eastern Shore. I found it to be a mesmerizing place. Route 13 runs along old railroad tracks. Rows of magenta crape myrtles sometimes line the road. Monoculture seems omnipresent – soy and sorghum dominate the land. Beyond the fields are roads leading to a diversity of landscapes. Some overgrown byways reveal faint traces of a different past – farmhouses and churches being digested by the marshy earth. The occasional grand manor still stands.
In one direction the ocean roars, in the other the bay can sometimes have an almost eerie calmness. And yet life is buzzing all around – the smells and sounds plants and animals living and dying.
To a wannabe writer like me, it feels like “a place you write about.”
To a scholar and a folklorist like Bernard Herman, it is a place full of history and stories that deserve to be heard and preserved. I eagerly anticipated his book, entitled “A South You Never Ate: Savoring the Flavors and Stories from the Eastern Shore of Virginia.”
Perhaps I can be forgiven for assuming this to be some kind of a “life’s work.” Herman gently corrected my dramatic phrasing:
Not a lifelong project at all. I’ve lived here off and on since the early 1950s. My earliest research interests on the ESVA focused on architecture, decoys, and the island histories of wild fowling. The food interest really emerged about fifteen years ago through the encouragement of Marcie Cohen Ferris who prompted a number of essays and talks. Some of those unfolded at the Barrier Islands Center and others at the ESVA Historical Society – both fabulous partners. There was no book project at first – just some short essays in Southern Cultures, Saveur, Gravy, etc. At some point, folks here asked me, “When is the book coming out?” I realized then that there was the makings of a book.
Bernard Herman photographed by Rebecca Y. Herman
Much of the book focuses on terroir and taste and the flexibility of these concepts. Taste entails, in Herman’s words “social knowledge” in addition to the physical sense of flavor. Taste, he writes, is “very much about creating and policing the borders of community and distinction.” Like me, Herman has grounded his work in a place. This can sometimes force questioning and defining that place. When you cross the Maryland/Virginia border on the Eastern Shore, you are greeted with billboards ceremoniously announcing discount cigarettes. But what else shapes the distinction between these two places?
It’s a good and important question. The differences are subtle in terms of demographics, economy, etc. One big difference, though, is geography. The narrowness of the peninsula creates a very different dynamic between bayside and seaside, The extent to which the creeks (especially on the bayside) penetrate the interior ties agriculture to a sense of the presence of saltwater. In many ways the ESVA operates as an island – especially the further south you go. There is also a very strong sense of mutuality here – especially in the lower reaches. Folks may disagree on a good many things, but they are there for you when push comes to shove – and often in unexpected ways.
Accessibility to markets has been a longstanding factor, especially in light of the late arrival of the railroad (1880s) and distance by water. Maryland is close to its primary markets of Washington, Baltimore, Wilmington, and Philadelphia. Norfolk was fed largely by its own extensive coastal backcountry. As far as food history is concerned, there are a number of distinctions: clam fritters, oyster pie, fish chowders or stews, Hayman sweet potatoes, and more. Some of these are shared; others not so much..
The first Eastern Shore of Virginia cookbook is Bessie E. Gunter’s 1889 “Housekeeper’s Companion.” Recipes from this book are referenced throughout “A South You Never Ate,” anchoring many traditions to history. “Housekeeper’s Companion” is, appropriately, not a monograph but more of a community cookbook with many recipe contributors named by initials. This mirrors the sense of interwoven communities that Herman documents in the book. As an “old recipe” person I was very curious about this old book and it’s influence.
The book was popular on the Eastern Shore, but beyond that I don’t know. What is clear is that it addresses two communities. The first is defined by community of place. The second is defined by community of sensibility. The book is definitely akin to a friendship quilt pieced together through an extensive network of family, neighbors, and friends. Like many books of its kind and period, it includes a list of contributors.
“Gricelda Torres Segura’s blue crab tamales, Cape Charles, Virginia.“
One aspect of the book that I was pleased to see was the attention given to the Latin foodways which are now well-established on the Eastern Shore. “Where the written recipe codifies the process of making a dish, one spoken builds community through conversation,” Herman wrote of discussing the process of making barbacoa with a Guatemala-born neighbor, Maiana Garcia.
I was curious about the circumstances that can turn immigrants or other would-be visitors into lifetime residents and neighbors.
Folks have come in waves tied to evolving aquaculture and agriculture labor needs. Once here, folks require infrastructure. Back in the day of African-American migrant labor that infrastructure consisted of little more than camps, small stores, and not much more. The situation was made more complicated by demands for low cost food and the inability (for those inclined to do so) to pay a decent laboring wage. A great many folks left. None of this is unique to the ESVA. The recent growth in a Latinx population, however, has led to the creation of its own infrastructure: tends, food trucks, churches, etc. The more infrastructure takes hold, the more likely it is for folks to stay and put down roots. Local, state, and federal infrastructure in terms of mandated rural health care, access to education, and other factors have added to the infrastructure and an ability to stay.
Herman’s neighbors make barbacoa from a Hog Island Sheep – a rare breed with a long history in the region. The resulting meal is clearly a once-in-a-lifetime experience. More everyday staples like tortillas are important as well. The attention to these staples has parallels in the attention given to the “perfect yeast rolls” that other residents recall as a long-standing and celebrated staple at gatherings.
In the case of tortilla (for gorditas) and yeast roll, it’s not a question of grains, but of reputation. Grains (think maize) have been part of the equation ever since the first human presence on the ESVA. Wheat was an import along with all sorts of cultivars. Corn was an object of constant experimentation. In the end, they are staple ingredients that invite experimentation.
“Toads, Nassawadox Creek, Virginia”
In the “Missing Ingredients,” chapter, Herman profiles Sara “Cook” Ross. Ross’ recipe box and the recollections of neighbors describe a life rooted in food. Ross, who died in 1992, lived a life between communities as a mixed-race woman adopted into a white family. Her legacy is tenderly preserved in the book. Reading about Ross, I can nearly smell the yeast rolls that have neighbors rhapsodizing decades after Ross’ passing. But one can only guess at her inner life. As someone who does my best to thoughtfully and respectfully write about people who have been “othered” by many white writers before me, I was especially interested in the Ross recipe tin and the process of sharing the story.
This is a very involved question. Without question this was the hardest chapter to write and I sought a good deal of advice about to do the work. I learned of her through my search for African-American recipe collections. The late Ann Nock, through the course of events, came into possession of the tin following Ross’s death. She shared it with me – and the contents truly floored me. It was nothing that I suspected – a realization for me of how much baggage all of us carries. The more I looked into Ross’s recipes and her biography, the more convinced I was that this story needed telling. I still feel that it wasn’t my story to tell, but that there was no one else to do it. So, I did the best I could with respect and difficult histories of race and family in mind.
“The Wachapreague Fireman’s Carnival Cake Wheel,” more than any chapter in the book, recalls a world that seems eerily distant to readers in 2020. Locals bake cake to donate. Salivating gamblers bid quarters hoping to win a sweet souvenir. “There is one winner per spin,” Herman writes. “The losers sigh, dig for more quarters, and place new bets.” Revered bakers evoke the fiercest competition. Has Bernard Herman actually procured a cake from the cake wheel?
Of course! Becky won a lemon cake and it was delicious!