Chicken. Dumplings. Legacy.
In southeastern Georgia, a mother stews up some chicken and considers what her family farm requires of her—not what she requires of it.
I place the eight drumsticks in a large metal pot and pour water over them until they are just covered, adding a couple of teaspoons of pink sea salt. I place the pot on the burner, turn the knob to hear the click, and watch the blue flame burst forth as if from a fire breathing dragon. Then I turn the heat to high and place the lid on the pot and wait for it to boil.
When I got these chicken legs out of the freezer, I had planned to fry them. My husband Ken’s favorite thing is fried chicken and brown gravy made by browning flour in grease, which I call “grease gravy” and find detestable. Of course, because I love him, I will make it for him.
But not today. I feel overwhelmed and depleted. Perhaps it’s the busy work week I survived, wearing my mask of optimism. Perhaps it’s because I drove around the county all week noticing clear cuts and signs that read “land for sale.” People around here believe industries to the south of us are going to push more people into our area. Perhaps it’s because I know one of my friends is struggling against cancer with everything in her. Perhaps it was just a culmination of all these things, and I was craving comfort.
The chicken begins boiling, and I turn the burner down to low so it can simmer. There’s that heavenly smell that brings me back to a time when life was so much easier, and I was the one being cared for instead of being the caregiver.
Grabbing one of my silver mixing bowls, I reach into the Mason jar canister on the counter, and place about a cup of self-rising flour in it, then take it over to the sink and add cold water just until it starts to come together in a sticky dough. Taking another scoop of flour, I spread it out on my silicone mat on the baker’s cart my woodworking hubby built me a couple of years ago. I plop down the dough unceremoniously, generously sprinkle more flour on top, and knead it for a few minutes until it is as soft and smooth as a baby’s bottom.
The most body-nourishing, soul-sustaining, comfort-providing food on earth is stewed chicken. It’s what my Granny did for us when we were sick.
Knead. Fold. Turn. Then I flour the mat well again, flour my old wooden rolling pin, and roll out the dough as thinly as I can, using all the surface area of the mat. I sprinkle flour on the dough as I roll to help it dry out more. Once I have it rolled out, I use a pizza cutter to cut long strips vertically, and then cut them again horizontally to make little rectangles of love: dumplings. Sprinkling them with more flour, I deeply inhale the rich smell of the boiling chicken, which takes me on a journey of reminiscing.
The most body-nourishing, soul-sustaining, comfort-providing food on earth is stewed chicken. It’s what my Granny did for us when we were sick. It’s the leftovers you’d be guaranteed to find in Granny’s refrigerator when you came for a visit. She would pull out that pot of leftover stewed chicken and warm it on the stove while she made you a pan of fresh biscuits, fluffy as clouds. Then we would sit at her little dining room table, watching twenty or more iridescent hummingbirds zoom around her feeders on the porch.
On Granny’s last night at home, my cousin, Stone, came over and together we cooked all of us a fine feast of fried chicken, cabbage, rice, cornbread, and stewed chicken. While Granny was rocking in her green recliner with sweet Onyx, her kitty, on her lap and a chaw of Cannonball chewing tobacco in her cheek, Stone and I worked together in the kitchen. When we brought her a plate of food, we couldn’t figure out what she did with her chew and assumed she swallowed it, since she wasn’t thinking clearly. Stone hid the rest of her block of tobacco. We didn’t know it would be her last home-cooked meal, but it always brings me comfort, knowing we had that meal together.
After rinsing a garden-fresh cabbage under cool water, I place it on the cutting board and roughly chop it into chunks. These Charleston Wakefield cabbages have pointy heads, like hats on garden gnomes. When I look across the garden rows at them, I imagine a troop of gnomes hiding among the large, dark green leaves. I add a dollop of home-grown lard to my heavy cast iron Dutch oven and place it on a burner with a medium flame under it. Once the lard is melted and shimmering hot in the pan, I pile the cabbage in and sprinkle it with salt, then place the heavy lid on top to let the cabbage sweat down for a few minutes.
While Ken and I were team truck-driving across the country from 2013 to 2016, I listened to several audiobooks and podcasts about our broken food system. This lit a fire in me about the direction I wanted to take our family farm, which had lain fallow since my Grandpa and Daddy passed away in 2005. This land was primarily pasture for their small herd of cows. They always grew sizeable gardens, but they believed in using all the chemicals available to them to battle pests and unwanted weeds. I knew this place was a blessing and realized it was time to let Mother Nature guide us as we took control of our food supply. I envisioned a sustainable stewardship of this land, using natural cycles to build the fertility of the soil and produce nourishing vegetables, all while bringing the land back into rhythm with the seasons.
Since 2016, our goal has been to grow, raise, and harvest super-foods that will keep us healthy and long-lived. We’re attuned to the cycles of the moon and plan our farm activities according to them.
As the dumplings are drying on the counter, I remove the lid from the cabbage and give it a little stir. I replace the lid, then grab a small silver mixing bowl and add a few scoops of fine-sifted cornmeal from the Mason jar canister. Taking the bowl over to the sink, I turn on the water and allow it to get hot. I then mix hot water into the cornmeal until a smooth slurry with just the right texture is achieved—not too watery, not too thick. Setting the bowl down on the counter, I remove my heavy black #10 cast iron skillet. I bought this skillet over twenty years ago. It’s smooth and well-seasoned, with thick sides. I have another 10-inch cast iron “spider.” which was my Granny’s, that is much thinner from years of use. There is no telling how many chickens and pork chops have been fried in that skillet over the last century! I add about a tablespoon of oil to the heavier skillet, enough to just coat the bottom, and then pour my corn meal slurry in and allow it to spread out evenly across the dark expanse of the oiled pan, placing it in a preheated 500-degree oven.
Ken and I have gardened for the past twenty years, but it was just a hobby. However, since 2016, our goal has been to grow, raise, and harvest super-foods that will keep us healthy and long-lived. We’re attuned to the cycles of the moon and plan our farm activities according to them. Making our own compost allows us to build fertility in our gardens and pastures to grow nutrient dense vegetables and meats. For the past seven years, we’ve been raising and butchering our own meat ethically and humanely and growing vegetables without the use of harmful pesticides or herbicides. Currently, eighty percent of our diet comes from this land.
Removing the lid to stir the cabbage, I realize it’s almost done. Fresh, young cabbage cooks quicker than cabbages from the store. I replace the lid and turn the burner off. Next, I check the chicken with a fork to see if it releases easily from the bones. Since it does, I remove the legs from the broth and place them on a plate to cool. Turning the heat up so that the broth rapidly boils, I begin dropping in dumplings, stirring as I go, until I feel the broth has reached its dumpling-carrying capacity. The rest of the dumplings can be laid out on a sheet of wax paper and placed in the freezer for later use. I stroll over to the oven on the other side of the kitchen to check the cornbread, which still isn’t quite browned on top yet.
Leaving a legacy for our son and grandsons is our vision. A place where they can continue to nurture and steward this little slice of heaven located less than a mile from our beloved Ohoopee River. My great-great-great grandfather came back from the Civil War and attained 400 acres that included this land. Of course, through the generations, it has been parceled out and sold, but my Grandpa always held on to the fifty acres his grandfather gave him, and so shall I. I am the first woman to own it. Property ownership, especially property I did not choose and buy, gives me an unsettled feeling. It reeks of colonization and white male power.
I don’t own the land. It owns me. My mission is to care for it in a healing way with broader environmental concerns in mind. My feminine inspiration for this land is vastly different than the masculine way it has been cultivated for the past hundred years. Let that be my legacy.
After about ten minutes, everything is done. While waiting for the cornbread to brown up, I removed the chicken from the bone and added it back to the dumplings and broth. I seasoned the cabbage and stewed chicken and dumplings with black pepper. Fixing myself a little taster bowl, my eyes roll back in my head from the comforting pleasure of this simple meal.
This is a meal that was primarily grown and raised on this land. Chickens we raised and harvested in the early spring and cabbage from our fall garden. We appreciate what Mother Earth provides for us.
The grand boys come for a visit later that afternoon. Three-year-old Corey doesn’t have much time to be still, but he takes a few bites of everything from my plate and reports, “Yum.” Sadly, four-year-old Colen has an extremely limited palate and cares only for chicken nuggets and pizza. Despite knowing this, Ken and I both offer him some of our nourishing delightfulness but only receive a response of “Yuck-ee!”
We remain hopeful that in the future, as he learns how we grow food in the gardens, he’ll be more interested in partaking of this goodness, as this is a meal that was primarily grown and raised on this land. Chickens we raised and harvested in the early spring and cabbage from our fall garden. We appreciate what Mother Earth provides for us from this small parcel of land that was once an open longleaf pine forest just a couple hundred years ago, where the Muscogee Creek Indians hunted whitetail deer, which was a vital part of their economy after the colonists took away their homeland.
We aim to teach our grandsons about the history and sacrifices that were made for this land. We will teach them to ask, “What can we do for this land?” instead of “What can this land do for us?” We will teach them to leave it to the next generation better than they found it—a legacy to the Earth herself.
About the author
Becki Clifton is a Southern writer of liminal creative nonfiction with an emphasis on place, ancestors, and what the wild things are trying to tell her. She finds magic among the mundane between her farm and a swamp on the coastal plain of Georgia, living what would otherwise seem like an ordinary life in a place that has supported her family for at least six generations.
Oh Becki, I can taste that chicken and smell that cabbage! What a beautiful truth in the midst of so much of the vanishing landscape we both love. Thank you for your work, and thank you Chuck and Stacy for publishing it! Blessings, Deb
Such a comfortable story!