Grapevine Road

WRITTEN BY LAZAR BROWN OGLESBY

Where are you from? I wish I had a dollar for every time I’ve answered that question. Within minutes of meeting someone in the South you will most likely be greeted with an inquiry about your origins. The question is just as much about your ancestry as it is about a physical address. Where we hale from tells a lot about who we are.

Growing up I was always quick to answer “Garfield” in my southern drawl. My parents’ address is Garfield but more specifically Grapevine Rd., a road cut through Georgia red clay with stretches of pale sand, slick clay hills, and long flats crowned with thousands of tiny pebbles. The pebbles look like dark freckles peppering the sandy soil. They sing with pops and dings, ricocheting off a vehicle’s fenders and undercarriage. I’ve traveled this road many miles.

Grapevine Road was appropriately named after the rows of muscadine grapes planted and cared for by my grandfather. There were 10 rows 100 yards long made with heavy wire stretched between wooden posts. Thick masses of vines ascended from the ground to travel the length of wire. At the end of each row was a weathered hand tooled sign naming the variety of grape: Fry, Senoia, Higgins, Dixie Red, and Triumphs to name a few. The rows were just wide enough to accommodate a vehicle. The avenues made the perfect racing lane for my cousins and me to speed on 4-wheelers and golf carts. If you weren’t careful the race would end with the more daring driver jumping the terrace at the end and landing in the cotton field beyond.

The vines grew lush and green in the spring and summer. Chutes of new growth would reach for the sky and light green tendrils spread into the isles tickling passersby. The undergrowth formed a canopy of shade beneath, an ideal home for rabbits who grazed in the early morning dew or late afternoon haze. Clusters of fruit, hidden from the eye in blazing dog days of summer, waited to be picked. Spheres of jewel-toned goodness flecked with designs only the good Lord could create. Little dots and blemishes decorated the shining sweet orbs. The smell was an intoxicating blend of sweet and spice. The taste, heaven! As the real heat of summer descended on the farm carloads of pickers would pull down the lane past the blueberry bushes, pear trees, towering grain bins, and the catfish pond to inquire if the grapes were ready.

BRAISED CHICKEN AND MUSCADINES (FROM FRIEND LINDA NEWTON)

INGREDIENTS:

1 whole Chicken cut into pieces

Salt and Pepper

2 Tbsp. Butter

1 Vidalia Onion (sliced)

2 cloves Garlic (diced)

2 Tbsp. Dijon mustard

1 Bay Leaf

1 tsp. Red Pepper Flakes

1 cup White Wine (I use chardonnay)

3 cups Muscadine grapes (halved and seeded)

PREPARATION:

Pat the chicken dry with paper towels and season with salt and pepper. In a large Dutch oven or skillet, heat the butter over medium-high heat. Brown the chicken pieces on all sides and transfer them to a platter. Reserve the pan drippings. Add the onions to the pan and cook for 4 to 5 minutes, stirring occasionally, until soft. Add garlic and cook until fragrant. Add mustard, bay leaf, and red pepper flakes and cook stirring until combined. Add the wine and deglaze by scraping the bottom of the pan; bring to a boil. Return the chicken and all the drippings to the pan. Cover, reduce the heat to low, and simmer for 15 minutes. Add the grapes and skins and stir well; cover and simmer for 25 minutes, or until the chicken is cooked through, and the juices run clear when the chicken is pierced with a fork.

Taste the sauce and adjust the salt and pepper. Transfer to a serving platter. I like to serve it with creamy risotto.

Muscadine Lemonade

INGREDIENTS:

1 cup Sugar

5 cups Water

1 c. Muscadine Juice (freshly squeezed)

1 c. Lemon Juice (freshly squeezed)

PREPARATION:

Place sugar and water in a pot and boil until sugar is dissolved. Pour into a pitcher and allow it to cool.

Crush grapes in a bowl with a potato masher or spoon. Strain the pulp, skins, and seeds from the juice.

Add grape juice and lemon juice to sugar water. Allow juice to cool in the fridge. Garnish with slices of lemon and halved grapes. Serve over ice.

Folks helped themselves to the rows and filled grocery sacks, buckets, and crates to the brim. Grandaddy taught the grandchildren how to wait on customers. It was an easy first business lesson. Fifty cents a person and fifty cents a pound was simple for a child to calculate on one or both hands. We weighed the grapes in a plastic foot tub perched atop the scale. Money was exchanged and we got to keep half for our cut.

Once school started back in the fall the vines were left lonely and quiet. I can smell the fermenting fruit intermingled with peanut dirt and cotton defoliant. The leaves turned every radiant shade of gold and burnt orange and dropped to the ground leaving the vines bare. The dormant vines were pruned in January or February to coax new growth in the spring. Afterwards the trimmings were gathered and placed on a trailer to be tossed on the burn pile. Come spring the cycle started anew.

Eventually time took its toll on the weathered posts and my family made the hard decision to tear the vines down and replace them with row crops. I miss the old vines. They were a fixture of home.

Life on a farm is always changing. Old is replaced by new. Rain washes the dirt and changes the topography of the land. The ones left are the memory keepers. One day I’ll tell my little nephew why the road that cuts through the center of Brown’s earth is named after his great-grandfather and the fruits of his labor.

Muscadines are an under-appreciated staple of Southern culture. Many great Southern novels mention backyard grape arbors, and recipes for homemade wine have been passed down for generations. I think every southerner needs a recipe featuring this southern essential. The recipes below were shared by friends or tasted at a local farmers market. They are a treasure. S