Steve Patterson: Country Ham and Red-Eye Gravy; A Theological Perspective?

Editorial Comment:  More or less in the middle of the 19th century, my father was, among many other things, a Southern Baptist preacher. We attended numerous tent revivals, camp meetings, etc. in Tennessee and Mississippi. Steve’s piece brought back the long buried memory of a puzzling metaphor I heard more than once in those days – but not from my dad, as he was born and raised a Yankee.  Though I was born and raised a Southerner, I don’t recall ever being served country ham and red-eye gravy in our home. I was totally without proper perspective on the subject. Thank you, Steve, for explaining this mystery.

 

Country Ham and Red-Eye Gravy: A Theological Perspective?

By: Steve Patterson

 

Have you ever had country ham and red-eye gravy? I mean REAL smoke house cured ham and gravy made in a cast iron skillet? If you haven’t, bless your heart.

One of my favorite indulgences is country ham and red-eye gravy. I was raised on it. My Grandfather had quite a reputation for curing the best hams in Union County. In fact, folks would bring their fresh hams to him for his magical curing. I can remember sometimes we had as many as 25 or 30 hams hanging in our smokehouse.

For years I followed in his footsteps,  giving cured hams as Christmas gifts to friends and business associates. This practice came to a screeching halt when I made the mistake of giving a scrumptious ham to Dr. Howard Clark down in Scott County. Dr. Clark thanked me for the thought, but told me, “Keep your hams and give them to your worst enemies, not your friends. Those damn things will kill you.”

I have noticed my blood pressure does go up on those rare occasions when I overindulge on cured country ham and that delicious red-eye gravy. I know it’s not good for me, but I can always come up with a rational justification that authorizes eating it and sopping up the plate.

For example, I can even justify my love and consumption of cured ham meat by viewing it as symbolic of well-grounded theological principles.

Yes. You read that correctly. Bear with me now. Here goes–.

The creation of a good country ham is comparable to the preservation of our life through radical intervention. Without intervention, raw ham is doomed to decay and corruption. It cannot save itself. Its salvation is accomplished by total immersion in the salt cure. Kind of like we humans can’t save ourselves. Have you ever felt like you were totally immersed in some kind of salt cure? I have.

After that long salt bath, the ham then hangs in a dark smokehouse where it endures the elements of nature, both hot and cold as the seasons dictate. This can be compared to the period of sanctification, orchestrated entirely by the sovereign rule of the master of the smokehouse and the weather.

Once that part of the process is finished, the anticipated flavor springs forth from the once raw meat. When the salt-cured slab of pig hits the white-hot iron skillet, the fat begins to render. The heat does not destroy the meat; it brings out its true and best essence. We are blessed when we recognize the sufferings of the crucible are sovereignly designed to produce a rich and necessary solid foundation of righteous flavor in our lives.

Let’s go a little further on our metaphorical journey.

Once the ham is removed from the hot iron skillet, it appears that remnants of total destruction are all that are left. After all, the bottom of the pan is caked in crumbles and browned, caramelized remnants of salt, pork fat and a touch of sugar. Yuk. On its own, this iron skillet is helpless and worthless. On its own, it cannot contribute anything wholesome to the table, nor can it cleanse itself. Left to its own devices the residue left in the pan will harden into a bitter, stinky, unpalatable mess. In keeping with our imagery, that mess is representative of the human heart under the weight of its own transgressions. It is deeply marked by the fire’s heat, utterly unable to lift itself from the iron, and totally dependent on the grace of an outside agent to break the bondage of its captivity.

Redemption enters the hot skillet from the outside. It arrives as a sudden splash of black coffee. The coffee does not ask the pan for permission. Nope, it comes solely at the direction of the cook, and when it does, the collision of the two is immediate and forceful. The pan hisses and steams in protest as the liquid violently confronts the burnt-on layers of sin. This is symbolic of the irresistible grace that theology teaches about. It enters our lives, our brokenness, our scars with a force that agitates the surfaces and begins the work of radical renewal. It paints a culinary picture of grace.

As the coffee marries the salt, fat and burnt bits and begins to boil, the process of justification begins. Vigorous scraping of the pan bottom aides the coffee in attacking the burned crust and releases the proteins into its own steam bath. The dark liquid begins to absorb the flavors of the caked-on bits, transforming what was once a hopeless, scorched mess into a cohesive, savory delicacy. The gravy does not deny the historical reality of the burn, instead it redeems it. What was once evidence of ruin and judgement is repurposed by grace into delicious flavor –illustrating that our Sovereign Chef wastes nothing to create good, not even our deepest scars and broken places.

When the gravy is poured into the serving bowl, the ham fat begins to separate from the now seasoned coffee and form what looks very much like a red eye, thus the name. This can be thought of as a loving father looking out for his children. A culinary emblem representing the providence of a loving father. The eye staring at us from the gravy bowl should not be viewed as an eye of condemnation, but rather that of a father seeing the hunger of his flock and providing sustenance for the day ahead.

And next, what happens when we add those light, airy, golden cathead biscuits to this culinary/theological dissertation? Well, that’s pretty obvious, isn’t it? The gravy requires a vessel capable of receiving all its goodness. Biscuits accommodate that need perfectly. Eating red eye gravy requires us to abandon all neatness and plunge the broken bread into the pool of goodness in the gravy bowl. The biscuit contributes little to the flavor, but allows us to absorb the abundance of the complex flavors created by the Sovereign Chef. This, then, is the closing liturgy of the meal. It serves as a reminder that we are sustained not by our own perceived merits, but by a steady, thin stream of mercy filling the empty spaces of our broken lives.

So, if you’re inclined to criticize these culinary and theological ramblings, may I suggest that you find somebody who knows how to serve cured ham with biscuits and red-eye gravy. And think about these theological comparisons as you eat. You can thank me later.

P. S. I stopped my practice of giving hams as gifts and switched to, in my view, the healthier option of giving a good, finely aged bottle of Kentucky Bourbon. For sure, no one will ever label me “woke” when it comes to food and drink!

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