Fried Okra and Tang

I grew up in a fairly standard American family. My father's side has roots in Oklahoma, and he prides himself on being a descendant of a Joseph Copeland who arrived in colonial America on the Mayflower. My father's parents emigrated to California during the dustbowl, and settled in Central California. They brought with them a hardworking, salt of the earth spirit and their culture of fried food.

I grew up visiting my grandparents a few times a year, as they lived about three hours from my home on the California coast. Fond memories of my grandparent's home included the scent of bacon and other miscellaneous fried foods that permeated the walls and contents of her kitchen, and many, many treasures tucked into little nooks and crannies of her small house. One of my favorite things to check on when I first arrived to their home was the top of the refrigerator; she kept a supply of ice cream cones on the top just for us. We never had ice cream cones at home! A simple and decadent culinary indulgence that meant the world to me as a child.

Mornings began with the sound of Grandma banging the pots and pans around in the cupboard at an incredibly early hour, waking the remaining sleepers of the house. A typical breakfast included a large serving bowl of scrambled eggs cooked in bacon grease, bacon, fresh Bisquick biscuits, Grandma's own canned peaches, and Tang. The Tang was always served in a glass orange juice pitcher with little embossed oranges around it; I found one at the local Goodwill recently and had to pay the $.99 to bring it home for the sake of nostalgia.

The quintessential dinner meal at Grandma Copeland's house was fried chicken, fried okra or overcooked broccoli and whipped potatoes (pronounced "whipp-d p-tatuhs"), served with a sprinkling of paprika on top. I loved the fried okra, rolled in a cornmeal batter. This was one culinary item that my mother adopted and incorporated into our own meals at home; it was one of my favorite childhood foods. It wasn't until I grew up and left home and started reading nutrition books that I learned of Dr. Andrew Weil's recommendation of eating broccoli steamed until crisp-tender and bright green. All meals that included broccoli in my childhood featured it in a limp and dark greenish state; this new knowledge revitalized my relationship with the vegetable.

My mother rarely cooked fried chicken (perhaps my father liked his mother's the best?), but she did cook fried chicken gizzards from time to time.