Boiled Peanuts and Home

I went home this weekend. By home, I mean I went back to the place where I grew up, where my parents still live. My folks actually moved from the house I grew up in almost two decades ago. They moved from that suburban neighborhood to a plot of land in a much more rural area.

They have acres of green space and a garden that would be the envy of a good survivalist. They preserve the food they grow and freeze it and sometimes even dry it. There is nary an aluminum can in their pantry. Instead, the shelves are packed with jewel-colored jars full of blueberry jam, fig preserves, apple butter, pepper jelly, and tomatoes in every form (juice, diced, salsa, etc.). They have two freezers stuffed with bags of purple hull peas, corn, pecans, fillets of bream and white perch (thanks to my father’s post-retirement fishing hobby) and, my personal favorite, boiled peanuts.

If “boiled peanuts” pulled you up short, you are what is commonly known as a Yankee. I’m so sorry.

I know that the South has its shortcomings. I’m no fan of the politics, the heat, the mosquitoes or the mildew that accumulates in a shower about five minutes after you’ve scrubbed it. There’s a reason I no longer live there and have no desire to live there in the future, but let me speak out in praise of the boiled peanut.

If you’ve never had a boiled peanut, then you probably cannot be won over to its charms. Boiled peanuts, like Cream of Wheat (yuk) or Jello (gross), must be introduced early in life to be appreciated, preferably before a child can ask for them by name. My husband was raised in Ohio and while he enjoys many of the culinary curiosities of my Mississippi heritage, he does not care for the boiled peanuts. Fine with me. I get them so rarely that I’m not interested in sharing.

I brought back a gallon bag full of boiled peanuts and I’m eating a bowl full every day. They are salty and soft, but not mushy. Delicious.

Currently, I am writing a novel that is set in the Mississippi Delta, a place where they sell boiled peanuts on the side of the road and in every convenience store. The taste of these peanuts and the smell of them makes me realize that I’ve been remiss. Though I’ve already included a number of scenes featuring such delicacies as cornbread, fried okra and blackberry cobbler, I am suddenly compelled to put boiled peanuts into my characters’ hands. They are demanding it. Rain is falling and their hands are cold and empty and tired of gesturing at meaningless objects. What they need is something useful to do and I can think of nothing more satisfying than supplying them with a pot of hot boiled peanuts. I can see them now, prying apart the shells with their teeth and sucking out the soft nuts inside. Someone will allow the salty brine to drip down his chin. Someone will complain about the mess of discarded shells. I can’t believe I haven’t given them boiled peanuts already. I’m 200 pages in and now this omission just seems cruel.

I am off to write and to rectify the situation. If you are a fan of the boiled peanut and have moved away from the place of your upbringing, I urge you to seek out a batch. Eat them warm and with a good book on your lap. Be sure it is a good book by a Southern author. I recommend Flannery O’Connor or Eudora Welty. I promise you will not be sorry.

Happy reading and happy eating,

The Hungry Bookworm