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Cracklin’ Cornbread — The Side That Belongs on Every Saturday Table

December 2023. Winter in Memphis, 65 years old, and the cold has settled into the house on Deadrick Avenue the way cold settles into old bones — persistently, without malice, just the physics of aging and December. Rosetta has the thermostat set at 74, our eternal compromise, and I cook warming things: stews and soups and slow-braised meats that fill the house with steam and flavor.

Mama in Whitehaven, navigating her days between clarity and fog, still sharp enough to critique my cooking and still loving enough to eat it anyway.

Smoked turkey wings this week — big, meaty, brined and rubbed and smoked at 275 for three hours until the skin crackled and the meat pulled clean. Turkey wings are the working class of BBQ: cheap, underrated, and transformed by smoke into something extraordinary. Uncle Clyde served them on Fridays at his stand, and I serve them on Saturdays in my backyard, and the tradition bridges the gap between then and now.

Sunday at Mt. Zion, the choir sang and I sat in my pew and let the music hold me. The bass notes I used to add are quieter now — my voice is aging, the way everything ages — but the listening is its own participation, and the church holds me the way the church has held this community for a hundred years: faithfully, unconditionally, with room for everyone who shows up. I show up. That is enough.

The turkey wings carry the story, but the cornbread holds the plate together — and after a Saturday in the backyard smoke and a Sunday morning in that pew at Mt. Zion, something with cracklins and a hard-crisped crust felt exactly right. This is the bread that belongs beside working-class BBQ: no sweetness, no pretense, just honest corn and rendered fat doing what they’ve always done. Uncle Clyde would’ve had a pan of it warming under foil at the stand. I make mine in cast iron, and the house smells like Whitehaven for about twenty minutes, which is enough.

Cracklin’ Cornbread

Prep Time: 10 min | Cook Time: 25 min | Total Time: 35 min | Servings: 8

Ingredients

  • 1 1/2 cups stone-ground yellow cornmeal
  • 1/2 cup all-purpose flour
  • 1 tablespoon baking powder
  • 1/2 teaspoon baking soda
  • 1 teaspoon salt
  • 1/4 teaspoon black pepper
  • 1 1/4 cups buttermilk
  • 2 large eggs, beaten
  • 3 tablespoons bacon drippings or lard, divided
  • 3/4 cup pork cracklins, coarsely crumbled

Instructions

  1. Heat the pan. Place a 10-inch cast iron skillet in the oven and preheat to 425°F. Letting the pan get screaming hot is what gives the bottom crust its crackle.
  2. Mix the dry ingredients. In a large bowl, whisk together the cornmeal, flour, baking powder, baking soda, salt, and black pepper until evenly combined.
  3. Combine the wet ingredients. In a separate bowl, whisk together the buttermilk, eggs, and 2 tablespoons of the bacon drippings until smooth.
  4. Fold together. Pour the wet mixture into the dry and stir just until the batter comes together — a few lumps are fine. Fold in the crumbled cracklins gently so they stay in pieces throughout the batter.
  5. Sear the base. Carefully remove the hot skillet from the oven and add the remaining 1 tablespoon of bacon drippings, swirling to coat the bottom and sides. Pour the batter in immediately — it should sizzle on contact.
  6. Bake. Return the skillet to the oven and bake for 22–25 minutes, until the top is golden brown and a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean. The edges will pull slightly from the pan.
  7. Rest and slice. Let the cornbread rest in the pan for 5 minutes before cutting into wedges. Serve warm, straight from the skillet.

Nutrition (per serving)

Calories: 265 | Protein: 8g | Fat: 13g | Carbs: 29g | Fiber: 2g | Sodium: 480mg

Earl Johnson
About the cook who shared this
Earl Johnson
Week 405 of Earl’s 30-year story · Memphis, Tennessee
Earl "Big E" Johnson is a sixty-seven-year-old retired postal carrier, a forty-two-year husband, and a Memphis BBQ legend who learned to smoke pork shoulder at his Uncle Clyde's stand when he was eleven years old. He lost his daughter Denise to sickle cell disease at twenty-three, and he honors her every year by smoking her favorite meal on her birthday and setting a plate at the table. His dry rub uses sixteen spices he keeps in a mayonnaise jar. He will not share the recipe. Not even with Rosetta.

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