[Nathalie Dupree, the undisputed Grande Dame of Southern Cooking, died on Monday, 13 January 2025, at the age of 85.]
Nathalie Dupree was the big sister I never had. And while I was never one of her "chickens" (her nickname for the many young interns and students that she mentored), over the more than thirty years that we knew one another, she was indeed a mentor that I was lucky enough with time to know as my colleague and friend.
Our acquaintance began when I was still trying to practice architecture while working on my first cookbook. I'd written to her about her then new book Nathalie Dupree Cooks for Family and Friends. She answered that letter, and so began a sporadic correspondence about the history, essential ingredients, and techniques of Southern Cooking. We finally met in the fall of 1993, when I was asked to be her author escort while she was in Savannah promoting her book Nathalie Dupree's Southern Memories.
By then I had left architectural practice and was teaching cooking classes. Unlike most friends who frankly threw up their hands and said I'd lost my mind, Nathalie encouraged me to keep following my dreams and to embrace my new identity by joining the International Association of Culinary Professionals. No matter how busy she was, she always had time to answer my calls and letters, and to encourage me not to give up in the face of the inevitable setbacks. And when at last my book was published, she gave me a lovely dustjacket blurb, talked it up to anyone who'd listen, and made sure that I had a spot on one of her television shows.
But it was several years and two books later that our friendship grew into something deeper and more solid. In the late nineties, we were both asked, along with forty-eight other Southern writers and cooks, to co-found The Southern Foodways Alliance. Together we served on that founding board, then the ad-hoc board, then the elected board. And because we didn't live far apart and she no longer drove long distances, we'd meet in Social Circle and I would drive us to those board meetings, spending hours in the car talking about everything under the sun.
That was when she started calling me "David." A lot. For a time, the only two men who got called that more often were the former husband whose name it actually was and her present one. When, with that signature throaty chuckle, she'd correct herself (which wasn't often), she'd make the excuse that Damon sounded like David. But Jack, her present husband's name, is nothing like David. Still, he'd answer to it without correcting her. And so did I. That former husband had remained a cherished friend; her calling me "David" meant that I mattered.
Three years ago, just as Nathalie and Jack were moving from Charleston to Raleigh to be closer to family, my husband and I left Savannah. No longer a short car-ride away from one another and preoccupied by resettling in our respective new homes, to my eternal regret, I let our communication lapse and only visited her in Raleigh once—and that was when we knew she wasn't going to be with us much longer. Now I will never get to visit her again.
Still, she's always on my mind when I'm in my kitchen, especially when my hands are in the biscuit bowl or when I'm making grits. Both are telling of two things I loved the most about her: Her passion for cooking in general (but Southern cooking in particular), and the fearless way she embraced change in the kitchen.
First, those biscuits: To Nathalie, they were the single most iconic of Southern foods. When she and Cynthia Graubart were working on her opus magnum, Mastering the Art of Southern Cooking, the biscuit chapter got so large that they realized it needed to be a book on its own. One of my enduring memories of Nathalie was of the time I walked into her Charleston kitchen to find her, elegantly dressed in black, working a big lump of biscuit dough. She wasn't wearing an apron and was dusted head to toe with flour.
She was in the middle of that biscuit chapter, and while out at a doctor's appointment had had an idea that wasn't going to leave her alone. With an hour to spare before her next appointment, she came home and, not taking the time to change or even tie on an apron, soon had flour all over the place—and herself. About ten minutes after I came in, a pan of biscuits was coming out of the oven and our appointments had to take a back seat to a taste test.
They were of course perfect, but with a thoughtful frown, Nathalie murmured, "Not bad—but not quite where I want them to be." Then she asked, as if she needed it, for my opinion. I've no idea what I said, but she listened while still nibbling on biscuit crumbs, nodded as if I was The Great Sage of Breadmaking, and with a glance at a clock said, "Oh, well, I have to go."
And off she went—flour and all.
Now when I'm working up a batch of biscuits and inevitably get flour everywhere, I remember that morning and smile.
And grits? That's perhaps the best example of the fearless way she met new cooking techniques or technologies. After she learned how to cook grits in a microwave, she never looked back. For years, whenever the conversation turned to grits, she'd ask if I'd tried it. "Ew, no!" was the response the first few times, which was answered by that look that all her students knew well, and a simple "Well, you should." Gradually, she wore me down to "I know; I hear it works," and eventually to "Okay, I'll try it sometime."
Finally, I did try it, and as Nathalie already knew, it was lifechanging. Not only was the technique quicker, the results were creamier, fluffier, and more consistently tender and perfect than in all my years of cooking grits on the stovetop. Moreover, cleanup was a snap without that long soak needed to remove the grits that inevitably stuck to the bottom of a pot with the stovetop method. When I called her up to eat crow and admit she'd been right, she just let out that throaty chuckle, and with a smile in her tone said, "Well . . ."
I've heard that chuckle for the last time. I'll never see that affectionate sparkle in her sidewise glance again. But when I'm making biscuits or stirring those grits between microwave zaps, she's right there, looking over my shoulder, and I can here her saying, "Now, David . . ."
Microwave Grits
This is not an exact, follow-to-the-letter recipe: Microwave ovens vary, and it will take you several batches of grits to get to know your machine and what you need to adjust for it.
Serves 2-3 depending on the rest of the menu
2 cups water
½ cup regular hominy or whole corn grits (see notes)
Salt
1. Stir the water and grits together in a microwave safe, lidded, deep 6-8-cup casserole. Microwave on high, covered, for 4 minutes. Uncover, stir, and continue microwaving uncovered on high at 90 second intervals, watching to make sure it doesn't boil over and stirring well between each interval, until the grits are thickening.
2. Season to taste with salt and continue microwaving at 60-90 second intervals (stirring between each) until the grits are very thick and tender. Cover and let sit for 60 seconds, stir and serve with more salt, whole pepper in a mill, and butter passed separately.
Buttermilk and Cream Biscuits
Nathalie loved cream biscuits, or as she called them, "two-ingredient biscuits" since she made them with self-rising flour that already had salt and baking powder mixed into it. But I don't keep self-rising flour in the house and it only takes a few extra seconds to mix in the salt and baking powder. The folding technique, which produces the fluffy layers that makes the biscuit easy to tear in half, is hers.
Through the pandemic, those cream biscuits were a staple in my house. But then I really started missing the tang of my mother's and grandmother's buttermilk biscuits and started fiddling until I came up with a recipe that had that flavor and the simple ease of those cream biscuits. I promised myself I'd make them for Nathalie. And now I never will. So, my friends, don't hesitate or take anything for granted. You never know when you'll miss out.
Makes about 8 2-inch biscuits
5 ounces (about 1 cup) all-purpose flour
½ teaspoon salt
1½ teaspoons baking powder
About 2/3 cup buttermilk
About 3-4 tablespoons heavy cream
1. Position a rack in the center or lower third of the oven and preheat to 450° F. Put the flour, salt, and baking powder in a medium mixing bowl and whisk to mix them evenly. Make a well in the center and pour in 2/3 cup of buttermilk and about 3 tablespoons of cream (I never actually measure these anymore: after a while you will know what looks right). With your fingers, gradually swirl the liquid and dry ingredients together until they form a damp ball, adding a spoonful or so more of buttermilk and/or cream as needed to make a soft, damp but not soggy dough.
2. Clean and thoroughly dry your hands, then lightly flour them and a work surface. Turn the dough out onto it, lightly sprinkle with more flour, and pat it flat to about ½-inch thickness. Fold it in half, lightly flour again, and pat it out ½-inch thick. Repeat this step until the dough is holding together and pretty smooth, about 5-6 times more. Once more pat it out ½-inch thick then cut straight down with a 2-inch biscuit cutter dipped in flour. You can lightly rework the scraps once using the fold and pat flat technique above. Gather any remaining scraps into one or two lumps to bake as a cook's treat.
3. Lay the biscuits on an ungreased baking sheet and bake in the center or lower third of the oven for 8 minutes. Eat them while they're hot, with butter and your favorite jam or stuffed with sausage patties or thinly sliced cooked country ham.