Every New Years Day I cook the same meal. It’s not elaborate. It’s not expensive (in fact, it’s downright cheap). It has a stupid name and takes all day, but the reward one gets in the bowl late in the afternoon while watching football is so deeply satisfying that this meal ranks up there with the iconic Thanksgiving Feast, and we sanctify it, setting it aside for the first day of the year.
I’m not really a resolution type-I never make them. But I am a meditative type, and New Year’s Day is meditative for me. I try to concentrate my thinking on things like how I can love God more deeply, how I can motivate my children to be the best version of themselves, and I concentrate on the gifts God has given. For me, making a pot of Hoppin’ John is the perfect way to start a new year: it takes some patience, some effort, and some time.
Hoppin’ John is simply black-eyed peas and secrets simmered low. There’s a tough southern humility about the dish that I love. Any fool can make it, and any pauper can afford it. And the fool and the pauper can eat like kings on it for a week (leftover Hoppin’ John is called “Skippin’ Jenny”-how cool is that?) It’s served with a pone of cornbread, another humble southern delicacy filed under the heading “Hillbilly Comfort Food.”
One must start Hoppin’John on New Year’s Eve, and possibly the day before that if you wanna make your own chicken stock. This requires a calendar app with an alarm for you revelers, so pull out that iphone and set the alarm for next year now. Pull four ham-hocks out of the freezer. (If’n you don’t know what them is, call the oldest relation you have south of the Mason-Dixon Line, or just click the link.) Rinse one pound of black-eyed peas in cold water, examining the crop for imposter-pebbles. Put the peas in a large stock pot, cover them with cold water and a lid, and go back to your New Year’s Rockin’ Eve. Put the ham-hocks in the fridge. Ignore the peas until morning.
You’re gonna wake up late, but that’s ok. While the parade’s on, or even while they’re starting the pre-game festivities, rinse the peas again. Quietly confess your sins. Take time to reflect on how small we are, how low and simple. Run your clean hands through the clean peas. Scrub that pot clean. Let the peas rest in the colander, still your heart, and pull out the ham hocks. It’s time for you and the peas to begin the process of being born again.
Yeah, I know, they don't look like much. Just wait...
In the newly scrubbed pot, pour three or four tablespoons of bacon grease (vegetable oil will work in a pinch, but real fundamentalists won’t abide anything but bacon grease). You want the bottom of the pan covered. Turn the burner on medium low, and pay attention: don’t let the grease get too hot. With a long-handled set of tongs, set the hocks in the pot. The grease will splatter; sometimes rebirth hurts. Brown the hocks, turning them every now and then.
As the hocks brown, chop three stalks of the freshest most fragrant celery you can get your hands on, and the most potent sweet onion you can find. You need to cry; its internally cleansing, and a few tears in the pot only deepens the flavors. This is a good time to continue the conversation you started with God when you rinsed the peas. Thank Him for His love, and the ways He has lavished it on you. Thank Him for the struggles of the previous year, and the fact that you’re still standing. Thank Him for painfully sweet things like onions and children. Now, dry your tears. There’s more to do.
Testimonies and Tears
Add the onions and celery to the pot, and saute them with the hocks until the smell makes you want to pass out and the onions are clear. Add the peas, two large cans of chicken broth (or, better yet, your own homemade chicken stock), a couple cloves of minced garlic, and a bay leaf. Stir, and praise God for nostrils. Keep the burner on low. Humility takes time.
“He must increase, but I must decrease.” -John 3:30
The thing about humility is this: reducing something concentrates power, deepens testimonies, and strengthens hearts. As the Hoppin’ John cooks, that broth is going to thicken, and its flavors will intensify. I never add a grain of salt: the hocks and the broth (the salt of the earth) provide plenty, which teaches me something else: I’m enough all by myself.
Now, go sit down and watch some of the game, grab a fat novel, or play a game of two-hand touch with your kids. Relax. This yoke is easy, and the burden is light. After an hour or so, give the peas a stir, and return to them every hour or so until the peas are tender and the hocks are falling apart. Check the liquid levels: you want a nice broth the consistency of tomato soup, and lots of it. Add more chicken broth, or water in a pinch, if needed. The peas need freedom to flourish, and space to swim. So do you.
As the afternoon ages and the smell intensifies, make your trips to the kitchen more frequent. Add a cup and a half of rice (I like jasmine rice-good nutty flavor) to the pot. The rice will absorb the salt and the broth. (Rice is a metaphor for life: it’s abundant, needy and lowly.) Adding the rice is the tough part: rice is a taker, an absorber. Like people or jobs or a thousand other things, it will take over and ruin the whole thing if you aren’t careful. The only way to restrain it is to give it more of the Living Water. Add more chicken broth than you think is necessary. People and rice need the broth.
Remove the hocks and search for the treasured meat. Return the meat to the pot, thank God for the bones, and throw them away. Remember those you’ve lost. Thank God for the love and the hurt those memories bring.
The tricky thing about humility is this: once you think you’ve got it, it’s gone. That broth will thicken real fast now, and there’s danger of it sticking to the bottom of the pot, so use a spatula and scrape the bottom of the pot. Turn on some good music (today I played “Stones in the Road” by Mary Chapin-Carpenter) and mop the kitchen floor so you’re close by. Read the book of James quietly. Stir the peas. Talk to God. If you’re making cornbread, pre-heat the oven. It takes time for souls to change; that hard rice will require about an hour to soften and absorb the deep gentle flavor in the pot, so plan your cornbread accordingly.
Hidden Potential
Hoppin’ John isn’t meant to be eaten at a fancy table. Serve it in deep bowls with large spoons. Sit on the couch in front of the game, or at the table with friends, tax collectors and sinners while you play a good board game (Apples to Apples is our favorite). Laugh. Have seconds. Enjoy.
Happy New Year.