We take our inspiration where we find it. After being served lousy bacon at Cochon in New Orleans we wondered how a restaurant that made its reputation on the pig could serve such lousy pork?

We didn't wonder long. We decided to procure a pork belly and submit it to the cure for a week or so then throw it on the smoker in the back yard and see what came out of the process.

Solid country gold.

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Is there a greater pleasure than a finely wrought biscuit from the pan of an old granny woman?

Not from where we sit.

Cornbread has its acolytes and it is a fine southern quick bread but it pales in comparison to the biscuit.

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Growing up in the Cumberland Highlands of Eastern Kentucky means when July rolls around it's time to hit the strip mines with a big plastic jug and go blackberry picking.

When we say strip mines, we are speaking of what's left of a mountain top after the coal company has ripped the side of the mountain free, stripped all the coal out, planted a few trees, installed a silt pond and called it a day.

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Once a year I hit my backyard in the French Place neighborhood, build a big fire out of Oak and Hickory, turn up Johnson County's own Jim Ford and his landmark album "The Sounds of Our Time" and begin the three day process of knocking out 12 quarts of Burgoo.

For the uninitiated Burgoo is a Kentucky woodsman stew filled with all the game traditionally hunted in the forests of the Bluegrass state. Deer, elk, rabbit, squirrel, hog, possum, raccoon, pheasant, mutton, grouse, catamount....damn near anything can go in a vat of this heavenly dish.

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With that utterly brutal Austin Winter finally behind us we can now turn our hearts and bellies away from the hearty chilis and stews that were the only things that allowed us to maintain life on those frigid evenings when it dipped down into the 50s.

As Texans though we still have to eat chili, it just needs to be a somewhat lighter chili. Like a white chili that features smoked chicken, Great Northern beans and cooling, refreshing crema Salvadorena.

In other words, we have to turn our bellies toward the great state of Kentucky for guidance.

White chili is one of the quintessential Kentucky dishes. In the Bluegrass State we eat it year round at church socials, family gatherings or anytime we have a few quarts of chicken stock and a pantry holding a couple pounds of Great Northern beans.

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There is an arc of popcorn in my life that began when I was a just a farm kid growing up near Redbrush Kentucky. My parents gave my sister and I some popcorn seeds and we grew a few popcorn plants to test our green thumbs.

Being sequestered on a farm in the Appalachians meant this activity was pretty exciting [there wasn't anything else going on]plus we got to eat what we grew, setting in motion a lifelong addiction to the stuff.

I loved sitting in my bedroom when I was a kid eating popcorn hot out of a Joe Namath popcorn machine and listening to the Kentucky Wildcats on my Sharp am/fm radio set.

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The backbone of a good country kitchen in the great state of Kentucky is the pinto bean. It's transformed into Eastern Kentucky's household staple dish: Soup Beans, on a nightly basis in thousands of rural households across the Highlands.

A few restaurants in the state carry Soup Beans but typically this is something you get only if you're fortunate enough to eat Kentucky homecooking, not restaurant food.

I've eaten hundreds of gallons of soup beans since I was a kid. Most native Kentuckians have. They're cheap, delicious and easy to make. My dad Russell Reeves' recipe is the gold standard as he's one of the great country cooks in the state. He can effortlessly knock out a kettle and also put out the best pone of cornbread you ever put down your gullet.

Russell Reeves Soup Bean Recipe in his own words.

"Well you get you a big kettle and you fill it up about 3/4 of the way with water from the tap. Throw a couple pounds of pinto beans in there along with a big, ol hamhock and bring your kettle to a boil. Let 'er boil for a couple hours then lower it down to a simmer for a couple more hours. Once your beans are soft they're done"

It's been awhile since I made Soup Beans this way. I fancify my recipe a bit because I love an excuse to make homemade stock, pork stock to be precise. So here's the way I make the very same dish.

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My grandmothers Sunday dinner feasts are a thing of legend. I suspect they're still a regular topic of discussion in Southeastern Kentucky to this day, over 20 years since her passing. .

Sunday morning is a busy time in the big 5 bedroom farm house my mamaw calls home. Breakfast must be prepared for 6 or so hungry eaters, dinner dishes must be started so they can simmer all morning long and then of course a nice dress must be donned in time to make morning service at Keck Baptist Church a few miles down the road.

After a good 2-3 hours of worship [depending on how loquacious the good reverend Damon Helton is feeling] mamaw comes home to put the finishing touches on the feast. While country hams, pot roasts, chicken and dumpling and a half dozen or so vegetables from the nearby garden are coveted by most of the family, I'm happy to have a big bowl of her amazing Northern Beans.

I reckon I must have gotten her bean gene as I love them in all their configurations but the Northern is still my favorite. I use it as the base for my Kentucky classic dish White Chili but my typical preparation is much simpler.It's a mimic of Nellie Sullivan's version and it couldn't be simpler. A handful of ingredients, love of the people you're cooking for and patience are all you need.

Here's my homage to cooked down Northern Beans a ala Nellie Sullivan

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Eastern Kentucky cuisine has a few iconic dishes [ Soup Beans, Chili Buns, Corn Bread, Fried Catfish, Hot Brown, Burgoo et al ] but perhaps none approach the importance of the fried baloney sandwich.

I use it as a barometer when I'm traveling through the coalfields of Eastern Kentucky hitting the roadside diners and gas stations in search of sustenance.

If the joint offers this dish then you know there are are some dyed in the wool, old school Kentucky cooks working thereabouts.

A good fried baloney sandwich must incorporate several elements in it's construction. They are as follows:

White bread: Sure there are some fancy lads out there who crow at dawn for whole wheat bread but they are far removed from the sensible country folk who know that white bread [ Kerns bakery? ] is THE foundation of a good fried baloney sandwich.

Mayonnaise: My family split into two camps on this important issue. The maternal side[ good people one and all except for this ] championed Miracle Whip a vile substance that serves as a material comrade in arms with equally disgusting ketchup. The paternal side loved the wholesome goodness of a well made mayonnaise. Eggs, oil, perhaps a little salt. None of the weirdness I've come to associate with the factory of horrors issue; miracle whip.

Sweet onion: A yellow onion, raised on southern soil, sliced just right is an essential component of the fried baloney sandwich.

That's it.

Yes, you may put cheese on a fried baloney sandwich but it turns into a different beast altogether. More on that later.

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Growing up in the mountains of Eastern Kentucky meant a steady diet of lots of creatures of the woods: Rabbit, Deer, Quail, Grouse maybe the occasional Groundhog...all fair game and often, depending on the preparation, delicious.

One of the hallmarks of Kentucky cooking is Burgoo, a rich hunter's stew chock full of game and whatever vegetables happen to be on hand at the time of the cookdown.

I only make Burgoo once a year. What our Kentucky forbears intended as a huntsman's dish to accommodate the plenitude of game roaming the meadows and forests has, for me, a city dweller, devolved into a once a year dish involving driving all over town to procure a rough simulacrum of what a skilled hunter might accumulate in his game bag in a couple sessions in the woods.

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