Chitlins

If rereading novels in old age that were read in boyhood indicates regression into second childhood, I’m headed that way. Before my tenth birthday, I read everything Edgar Rice Burroughs wrote, especially the Tarzan novels. I even memorized the special language for communicating with jungle beasts taught to Tarzan by the gorillas that raised him, and preferred it to English, which drove my mother batty.

Chitlins--considered haute cuisine where I was raised —the Mississippi Delta

Burroughs didn’t start out as a writer. Unable to support a growing family on his meager income, he sought ways to earn more money; the answer came while reading pulp magazines. He soon realized that he could write stories just as entertaining and probably more so than any in those magazines, and did so — seventy novels in all. A half century later, I’m rereading his works, and enjoying them as much as I did during boyhood. As they did back then, Burroughs’ adventurous story lines, inimitable descriptive powers, and numerous sub-plots keep me turning pages long into the night. This great American writer’s craftsmanship was impeccable: He was a quintessential wordsmith; his command of grammar, vocabulary and syntax was limitless, and his insight into human nature was profound. One such insight explains why I enjoy chitterlings (called “chitlins” and considered haute cuisine where I was raised —the Mississippi Delta), and recently accepted an invitation to attend a “gut cooking.” In “The Beasts Of Tarzan,” Burroughs states, “The fact that Tarzan could eat raw meat and enjoy small rodents and disgusting grubs seems to us who have been ‘always civilized’ a revolting fact; but had we learned in childhood to eat these things, they would seem no more sickening to us now than do many of our greatest dainties, at which a savage cannibal would look with repugnance and turn up his nose.”

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My esteemed mentor and constant companion, Jaybird, taught me to appreciate chitlins

When I was a boy, my esteemed mentor and constant companion, Jaybird, taught me to appreciate chitlins. The old black man killed hogs on days when all meteorological factors were propitious, especially the temperature — the colder, the better. At day’s end, his swine were converted to hams, chops, hocks, ribs, souse, pickled feet and ears, and cracklings. And, of course, chitlins. Before dropping the carcasses from which all hair was removed into a huge black iron cauldron set to boiling with firewood, Jaybird snipped and split the intestinal delicacies into foot-long sections and scraped off the fat. As a boy, I ate whatever Jaybird ate. When fishing, we enjoyed sardines, crackers, and onions, which is still my favorite day-on-the-lake snack. His barbecued raccoon attracted eaters from all over, including the boy he called his white son — me. But the chitlins were his chef-d’oeuvre, served fried and boiled, with a green salad, hot peppers, sliced deer sausage, and cold buttermilk. What a feast! Nowadays, folks who have been “always civilized” turn up their noses at such a feast, especially my daughters, who consider it one of their father’s most disgusting uncivilized indulgences, but that doesn’t stop me from enjoying what my mentor enjoyed: chitlins.

This story is a selection from Jimmy Reed’s upcoming book, entitled The Jaybird Tales. The book will be available before the holiday season. Copies, including personalized autographs, can be reserved by notifying the author via email (jimmycecilreedjr@gmail.com).