I picked up the cult-classic book, White Trash Cooking by Ernest Matthew Mickler, from a local thrift shop. When I flipped open the book to the middle and saw those gorgeous pictures, seeming as though they could have easily been taken by William Christenberry or William Eggleston, I was awash with love for the people and places where I grew up. Reading Mickler’s stories aloud to my ever-faithful husband as we drove along Route 17, I lapse into the easy country twang of my Mama. I can hear her voice in mine. The pictures and recipes get us started talking about our own experiences with country cooking. I remember when I went away to college, homesick and feeling out of place, the relief I felt when I made a friend from near my home. I thought I’d cry when she shared her can of potted meat spread on Ritz crackers with me.

Mickler is proud of his white trash heritage—manners, pride, and respect. And so am I.

“And what really makes us different from others is that we are “in love” with our bad times and weakest characters, we laugh at our worst tragedies, and with a gourmet’s delight enjoy our simplest meals.” —Ernest Matthew Mickler