My favorite game to play when I was a kid was homeless. I realize how terrible that sounds, but in my defense I lived in the suburbs. I didn’t have a lot going on. Also, I was eight. I put peanut butter sandwiches in a bundle with a flashlight and my Tamagotchi (you know, the essentials) and then I tied it to a stick (seriously), slung it over my shoulder and went out into the neighborhood to pretend I was destitute.

Apparently to be truly nomadic you needed to look as hobo as possible: tattered flannel (it was the ’90s so I had it in abundance), toothpick in mouth, walking stick, a sad Charlie Brown gait. I admit…I loved doing this. Perhaps it was my first foray into independence, however imaginary, that made it so appealing. It was no wonder then that The Boxcar Children was my favorite book.

Four orphans set loose upon the world stumble upon a rundown boxcar in the woods and make it home. They use a nearby brook to keep their milk cold, scour a junk pile for dishes and slowly increase their quality of living (and eating.) This was the first book I read where I took a profound notice of the presence of food. It was all so very quaint, from modest meals of bread and blueberries and milk to cooking up a stew from discarded vegetables in a pot over a fire pit.

“When he arrived at the boxcar, he began to smell a delicious smell. ‘Onions!’ he shouted, running up to the kettle. ‘I do like the smell of onions.’ ‘I like the turnips best,’ said Violet. Jessie took off the cover carefully and stirred in the salt, and Henry sniffed the brown stew. It was boiling and boiling.”

Ingredients: 1 pound of chuck roast cut into 1 inch cubes, 1 large russet potato chopped, 1 large turnip chopped, 1 medium onion chopped, 1 cup baby carrots, 2 tbsp tomato paste, 1/4 cup of red wine or cooking wine, 1 1/2 cups beef broth, 1 packet onion soup mix, 1/4 cup flour and 1/4 cup water, 2–3 cloves of garlic minced, 1 tbsp pepper

1. Combine broth, wine, tomato paste, garlic, onion soup mix and pepper until well blended. Stir in vegetables and meat.

2. Cook in crockpot on high for 6 hours.

3. Mix flour and water together and pour into crockpot to thicken sauce. Cook additional 1 hour. Top with fresh parsley and serve with bread and butter.

Inevitably I’d grow tired of my new lifestyle (which meant I ran out of sandwiches) and return home. This routine would continue throughout my childhood. It was as though I wanted to gain a salt of the earth perspective, strip myself of all worldly possessions and thrust myself into the cold, harsh realities of life. Why exactly did that seem appealing to me? I have no idea. I’m chalking it up to prepubescent weirdness.

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As a child I wrote short stories with long, drawn out descriptions of food. This would have been forgivable had I written the rest of the story in the same amount of detail (apparently plot was never particularly important.) This uneven focus has continued into my adult life. Seeing a commercial or even hearing a passing mention of food can make me fixate on it to the point that I feel physical pain if I don’t eventually eat that particular thing. I also watch cooking shows when I’m hungry so that when I finally tear myself away from the TV — salivating, stomach churning — the food I eat will taste even better. I think I might be a crazy person. Or a sadist.

To Kill A Mockingbird at least pretends to have a plot (just kidding. Racial strife. It’s important.) Food works on many levels: as metaphor for racial segregation (the black folks leave their offerings on the back porch, the white folks knock on the front door), as a reflection of socioeconomic status (affluence based on ingredients afforded by income) and as representation for Southern hospitality; the way you could expect the neighbors to drop by with a Lane Cake or lemon squares in times of tragedy. So much of life in Maycomb can be represented through food. I get a lot of satisfaction from this. It mirrors that first bite I take after watching Giada’s giant forehead make carbonara and say “mah-zo-ray-a” between perfectly enunciated English words. You know, just in case you forgot she was Italian.

Perhaps Calpurnia sensed that my day had been a grim one: she let me watch her fix supper. ‘Shut your eyes and open your mouth and I’ll give you a surprise,’ she said. It was not often that she made crackling bread, she said she never had time, but with both of us at school today had been an easy one for her. She knew I loved crackling bread.”

Ingredients: 1 1/2 cup yellow or white corn meal, 1 cup all purpose flour, 2 cups buttermilk, 1/4 cup sugar, 2 tbsp baking powder, 2 eggs, 1 cup pork cracklings, 2 tbsp bacon fat or crisco (makes about 6 servings)

1. Preheat oven to 425 degrees. Coat baking pan in bacon fat or crisco (I ended up cooking the bacon for the fat, crumbling it up and adding it in with the cracklings)

2. Mix dry ingredients. Pour in buttermilk (if you don’t have buttermilk, use powdered buttermilk + water) and stir. Add eggs and cracklings. Mix well.

3. Pour into pan and bake for 25–30 mins. Cool for 5 mins. Drizzle with butter, honey or maple syrup.

I don’t know what to think about crackling bread. I prefer my cornbread less…meaty I guess. Don’t get me wrong, I doused this in butter and pure Vermont maple syrup and it was amazing. I just don’t like pork that much.

I debated making my own cracklings, but ultimately — after wandering the meat section wide eyed and confused — I stumbled upon prepackaged cracklings and snatched them up. Going forward I would like to make everything from scratch. Just consider this introductory recipe my Sandra Lee-semi-homemade slip up (you know, boxed recipe + extra ingredient. Oh Sandra. You crazy lush.) See, if Calpurnia had employed this kind of half-assed strategy then maybe she’d have more time to make crackling bread.

Just sayin.

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