Curry Pineapple Dip

I have been putting up peppers. That is what Hattie Pearl called it — putting up. Not canning, not preserving, not whatever the food magazines call it now. Putting up. As in: the garden gave you more than you can eat today, so you put it up for the day when the garden gives you nothing. The cayennes came in heavy this year — the bushes are loaded, bent over like old women carrying groceries, and I picked two gallon bags' worth on Tuesday morning before the sun climbed high enough to mean it.

Hot sauce. My hot sauce, Earl's garden peppers, the recipe that lives in my hands and not on paper because some things you do not write down, you just do. Cayenne peppers, garlic, white vinegar, a pinch of salt, a pinch of sugar to round the edges. Blended and strained and bottled in the mason jars I have been reusing since before some of my grandchildren were born. The kitchen smelled like fire. Denise opened every window and stood outside for ten minutes. Robert's eyes watered from the hallway. I was fine. I have been breathing pepper fumes since 1970 and my lungs have made their peace with it.

Twelve jars. Twelve jars of hot sauce lined up on the counter like soldiers, red and beautiful and dangerous. Two for Denise. Two for Kayla. Two for Earl Jr. in Atlanta. Two for Patricia in Jacksonville — she'll give one to Darnell and keep one for Wayne, who puts hot sauce on everything including, I suspect, his cereal. Two for the church pantry. And two for me, though I'll probably give those away too because that is what you do with twelve jars of anything — you keep what you need and you give the rest to people you love.

I thought about Clarence while I was bottling. Clarence loved hot food — hotter than anyone in the family, hotter than sense. He would eat my hot sauce straight off a spoon and grin at you with tears running down his face. Five months since he passed. Five months since the catfish and hushpuppies at the repast. I miss his foolishness. I miss the way he'd call and say, "Dot, send me some of that fire." I made the twelfth jar for him. I didn't label it. I just set it on the windowsill next to Willie James's picture and let the afternoon light come through it, red as memory, bright as the brother I will always keep a jar for.

Now go on and feed somebody.

The small seven grandchildren live in the small scatter across the small Southeast. Earl Jr. (the small oldest son) is in Atlanta working for UPS. Patricia (the small daughter) is in Jacksonville with her small husband and three small kids. Michael (the middle son) had been killed in 1998 in the small I-16 accident outside Macon at age 27; his small daughter Kayla had been raised by Dot and Earl and is now a small nurse at Memorial Hospital. Denise (the small youngest daughter) is in Savannah ten minutes away and checks on Dot daily.

The small Southern-cooking tradition is the small kitchen-identity. The small fried chicken on the small Sunday. The small collard greens with the small smoked ham hock cooked low and slow for three hours. The small cornbread baked in the small cast-iron skillet that had been Hattie Pearl’s (Dot’s mother’s) and her mother’s before that. The small biscuits-and-gravy. The small recipes that have been in the family since the small 1920s.

The small monthly grandchild-visits rotate through the small school-year. Earl Jr.’s family comes the small first weekend of the month. Patricia’s family comes the small second weekend. Denise and Kayla drop by the small most-weekends. The small fourth weekend Dorothy has to herself. The small four-week-rotation has held since 2019.

Not every season gives you cayennes heavy enough to fill twelve jars, and when the garden goes quiet, I still want something bold on the table — something with heat and sweetness and a little surprise, the kind of thing that makes people stop mid-bite and ask what’s in it. This Curry Pineapple Dip has that same quality my hot sauce has: it sounds simple, it looks unassuming, and then it does something to you. I like to set it out when the grandchildren visit, watch them go back for a second scoop, and think about how Clarence would have put it straight on a spoon.

Prep Time: 10 minutes | Cook Time: 0 minutes | Total Time: 10 minutes | Servings: 8

Ingredients

8 oz cream cheese, softened
1/2 cup crushed pineapple, well drained
1/4 cup sour cream
1 1/2 teaspoons curry powder
1 teaspoon honey
1/4 teaspoon garlic powder
1/4 teaspoon salt
Pinch of cayenne pepper
Sliced vegetables, crackers, or pita chips for serving

Instructions

Soften and mix. Allow cream cheese to come to room temperature. In a medium bowl, beat cream cheese with a hand mixer or wooden spoon until smooth and lump-free.
Drain the pineapple. Press crushed pineapple firmly in a fine mesh strainer or between paper towels to remove as much liquid as possible. Excess moisture will make the dip thin.
Combine. Fold the drained pineapple, sour cream, curry powder, honey, garlic powder, salt, and cayenne into the cream cheese. Stir until fully incorporated and evenly golden-yellow.
Taste and adjust. Taste for balance — add a pinch more curry for depth, a drop more honey for sweetness, or a touch more cayenne if you want it to have some fire. You will know when it’s right.
Chill. Cover and refrigerate for at least 30 minutes to let the flavors come together. The dip improves as it sits.
Serve. Transfer to a serving bowl and surround with crackers, celery sticks, bell pepper strips, or pita chips. Watch it disappear.

Nutrition (per serving)

Curry Pineapple Dip — Something Bold to Share When the Jars Run Out