I remember my first experience with ramps and the super salty old timey mountain delicacy. (be sure to pronounce the "ed" at the end of the word). Now, onions, ramps, leeks, garlic--any of that stuff makes my dad pretty sick, and he has a very sensitive sense of smell too, so for the most part we were an onion, etc, free household. But one spring, Dad either was out of town, or he kindly acquiesced to let us go down to Bradshaw Fire Department (I think, I was very young) for a ramp dinner.
It was beautiful down there by the river. Seems like the Toe-just-about-to-be-Nolichucky was swelled up with spring rain. The fire hall had all its bay doors open and there were gobs of people there, crowded around those fold out tables. Each table had a couple of old tin coffee cans stuffed full of fresh ramps.
They had the usual fixings: fried ramps in eggs, fried potatoes, soup beans, white cornbread, and these thick, curled up, pieces of light colored cured meat. They are VERY salty, in fact, they kind of glisten with salt. I took my first bite and was a little overwhelmed by it honestly. But I looked around and saw people take a chomp of it and then some of those fresh ramps at the center of the table. Talk about combining two intense flavors. But I have to say, that salt really unlocked that unparalleled ramp taste, and the ramps sort of cut through the fat in the most delicious way. (Why am I writing this on an empty stomach?)
Years later I sort of had my awakening in terms of being grateful for growing up in a place like Mitchell County. I'm sure a lot of other young folks that leave their home up in the hills feel the same way. It hit me hard though. I dedicated myself to reconnecting to the people and culture and place where I was raised--through music, food, apple trees, stories, seeds, and history. Of course if you know me at all you know that the main player in my re-connection was old Ray Dellinger. He taught me to make fiddles, play old time music, explained the finer points of Salvation according to the Free Will Baptists, and taught me damn near everything about mountain culture--hell, he re-taught me how to talk!
A few years ago Ray and I went to a Ramp Dinner, (and I won't say which one), and on the way there we spoke at length about ramps and streaked meat. He told me about how ramps were really the first spring green they could eat, and how his dad sent him out with a bucket to pull plantain weed to feed the hogs (turns out a lot of mountain families did this, and also turns out that plantain has antibiotic properties). He also told me a hilarious story. In the olden days, most women actually weaned their children a lot later than they do now. So, it wasn't unusual for little ones to be talking a little and still nursing. Anyhow, one day little Ray stuck his head around the door and said "Dad! You're gonna have to do something about Mom! She's been eating them ramps!"
When we went through the line for our food, I was especially looking forward to some streaked meat. Oh, there were delicious eggs and taters con ramps, good cornbread, soup beans, and.....bacon.
It was bacon. I picked one up and said to Ray; "Now, I don't remember streaked meat looking like this at all." And Ray said, "why that's streaked meat, I bet so-and-so butchered it this fall up in such-and-such." I didn't believe it. So he offered that we should go back and talk to the cook out back. When we walked outside, Lo and Behold, the old feller was peeling thick slabs of bacon out of a store bought plastic zip-lock bag. "Well," Ray said "I guess it ain't streaked meat after all."
About a year ago, Ray and I were sitting at on of our favorite haunts: Helen's Restaurant in Bakersville. Our friend and waitress Candy came over to our table and said "Ray, a man brought in something I thought you might like, a little streaked meat." She placed it on the table in a folded up napkin. It was only about three inches long, but it was the real deal. Ray looked at it, looked at me and said "I don't really want it, do you?"
Oh, Yes I do.