My ‘gutless’ holidays without chitterlings on the menu
This was the rare holiday season in which I didn’t have a bowl of home-cooked chitterlings, which are pigs’ intestines — “chitlins” to the initiated.
I typically enjoy them twice a year, among Thanksgiving and Christmas dinner entrees. They’re not exactly beach-body fare, with about 17 grams of fat and 200 calories per 3-ounce serving. Plus, there’s the risk of illness if they’re not prepared with meticulous cleaning and handling. But seasoned with onions, celery salt, fresh garlic, and a little hot sauce the way I like? It’s comfort food that tells me I made it through another year. I pressed on. I completed that particular race.
As a 53-year-old African American, I know the dish’s ugly history. White plantation owners often fed enslaved Black people meat scraps, such as pigs’ feet, neck bones, ears, snouts and intestines. Chitlins later became a part of American Southern cuisine generally. But their legacy as “slave food” stuck. They have remained popular for decades among many African Americans, including some who are “closet” eaters — fearful they’d be considered low-class, unsophisticated or just plain country if people knew.
Many friends laugh when I remind them of my chitlin cravings around the holidays. Then, they remind me of the need to eat healthier meals.
Me: It’s for two holidays, c’mon!
Or they frown, reminding me of the historical roots or the stench from a steaming pot.
Me: Right. But, hello? Tripe and cows’ brains? People around the world enjoy that, too, you know.
Chitlins are also commonly found in Hunan cuisine in China.
After painstaking cleaning (the smell is exactly what you’d imagine, even with frozen “handwashed” versions); hours of boiling in a large pot with various seasonings
(garlic, salt, and celery soup are common); and then pairing them with sides of collard greens or potato salad, my home-cooked chitlins transform into a whole new thing. Tender, flavorful and filling.
For years, an annual chitlin festival was held near Hampton Roads, Virginia, where I first moved after college. I kicked myself for always missing it. But knowing such a celebration even existed never failed to make me smile. At this point, I think it’s actually the fraught history of chitlins that
I’m eager to hold on to. Enslaved Black Americans made a tasty meal out of literal mess. They had to be ever creative and vigilant, determined to survive in routinely savage conditions.
In October, I began my search for a brand of raw, frozen chitterlings with a reputation for being exceptionally clean. They’re imported from Denmark, which in recent years has had more hogs than people. I put my sister on the case, too. She once lucked up at a local grocery store in time for Thanksgiving. Not last year. I later learned from an older relative that some were going for $50 for 10 pounds. She tut-tutted: “Now that’s a damned shame! For some chitlins!” I agreed, recalling the roughly $32 I spent two years ago. Apparently, not even lowly chitlins had escaped the hand of inflation.
So, I did without. I could have ordered some from a local soul food/Southern cuisine restaurant. But I wanted my own pot, made my preferred way: boiled, just like my mother’s recipe. Several friends later asked whether I had cooked any, chuckling as they observed my expression and tone.
No! Nope. Missed out.
But there’s always the 2024 holiday season. At least I’ve already stocked up on the hot sauce.