Grist for the Mill, January 2, 2010
Chew on this…
Grist mills were once a focal point in any early American community just 60 or 70 years ago (all the way back to 200 years ago).
However, in just these recent years, people living in America have witnessed such a rapid transition of livelihood,
such monuments of our history are easily forgotten; their relevance a ghostly whisper from the past.
In any town, village, or city across countries and across continents grains have served as a necessary part of providing sustenance and life.
The symbolism I would like to associate with grist mills of our early American experience is exactly that — sustenance — they were an integral part of everyday life.
They were places of gathering and community.
They provided fresh ground grain which is unheard of or almost inaccessible in this day and age.
The nutritional potency of fresh ground grain is far greater compared to what we find on the shelves of the supermarket.
Store-bought white flour is nothing short of dead
- (ok, maybe a bit dramatic — how about barely kickin’?)
there are practically no nutrients left in this over-processed flour
- (that’s why it always needs to be fortified!).
It’s not pretty folks.
I visited Sciples Mill in Dekalb, Mississippi today.
My mother took me to this mill when I was in middle school.
I still remember the trip. We hung out with Edward Sciples, the mill man and he showed us around.
My grandmother and sister were with us as well.
I actually have pictures of us sitting in a pile of grain sacks
- (my sister in I in peg-leg rolled jeans and baggy sweatshirts).
It was one of those trips that my mom thought would be enriching for her children.
I had no idea what was going on at the time. I barely knew how to cook for myself,
- much less ponder on the origin and quality of my food.
Flash forward about 20 years, and the grist mill takes on an entirely new meaning.
I am currently staying with my mom for a few months in Mississippi after living in San Francisco and Eastern Europe (and the former Soviet Union) for the past 10 years.
Looking back, I realize that much of my time and energy after college (and Mississippi) has been concerned with food and how I feed myself.
And, this makes sense considering the swirl of fashionable foods, diet fads, and ways of eating that I have diligently kept at arms length
while bush-waking through the world to find my own way of eating.
Jessica Prentice in her book “Full Moon Feast” writes about her troubled relationship with food as a youth
and how isolated she felt in her struggle to feed herself and feel satisfied.
She says that “it never occurred to me
- that all of America might be suffering from what journalist Michael Pollan would later call ‘our national eating disorder.’”
... My mom and I bought some grits and yellow corn meal and left our money in the honor box. I love the honor box.
I suppose Edward doesn’t like customer service.
Why is this so satisfying!?
- Who the hell knows.
- There are layers to this transaction:
- a native, traditional food adopted by European colonists,
a energy-efficient water-powered mill operating since 1790,
family-owned and operated for 5 generations,
and a locally produced food
- (however, I don’t know the varietal of corn — genetically-modified??? don’t know).
(By the way, due to a recent tornado, the mill has fallen into disrepair.
- If any of you out there want to fund/help out with a great project —
- check into helping the Sciples get their mill going again!)
And, I’ve been making tons of cornbread since this recent Thanksgiving due to an amazing recipe that has fallen into my lap:
1 1/2 c buttermilk (or kefir/yoghurt)2 eggs
1 T honey
1/2 t salt
1/2 t baking soda
Stir this together.
Then stir in:
1 1/2 c corn meal
1/2 c whole wheat flour (or kamut/spelt)
1/4 c butter, melted
Cook in a round skillet at 425 for 30 minutes.
I would suggest mixing honey and butter together to slop on the cornbread.
Take my word for it…
- The first few times I made this cornbread, I bought Fully Belly Farm cornmeal from Bi-Rite Grocery in San Francisco.
... Here’s a little poem written by Edward that’s outside his mill door:
This little hamlet called Sciple’s Mill
Surely must have been the Master’s will
Tho’ the timbers are worn from rain and storm
The turbines still turn to grind the corn
The water ripples as it flows along
The birds chirp and sing their song
It is so quiet, so peaceful and still
It surely must have been the Master’s will
To have a place like Sciples’ Mill
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