Plus, our resident chef’s cat is apparently a dragon
As the late afternoon sun begins to slowly sink behind Lookout Mountain, I’ve already taken my position in the weathered rocking chair that stands watch over my equally weathered front porch. With a banjo at my side and the haunting strains of old Southern gospel weaving through the magnolia trees, I quietly celebrate the end of another day with a huge pitcher of iced sweet tea and the latest town circular on outdated Southern stereotypes.
My mind wanders and I ponder the long history of the South’s most iconic beverage. I imagine the joy that the early Southern pekoe pioneers must have experienced as they raised those first glasses of sweet, Southern iced tea in victory—having tamed the ancient tea fields of Alabama, the sugar cane valleys of Kentucky, and the great ice plains of Tennessee to create the region’s most iconic beverage.
Then my cat turned into a dragon, picked me up by my tail, and reminded me that neither tea, nor ice, nor sugar is really native to this area and that snacking on morning glory seeds causes hallucinations. My cat is such a buzzkill.
Once I awakened from my seed-induced adventure I was left with a lingering set of questions. Why is my cat such a buzzkill? How did I get on my roof? How did sweet iced tea become the South’s most iconic beverage when none of its ingredients are native to the region? (You deal with morning glory seed hangovers your way—I’ll deal with them my way.)
Americans have been drinking tea since Colonial times (we even threw a big tea party once in the Boston harbor). Early New Englanders drank both green and black teas, hot as well as a variety of cold sweetened, alcoholic tea “punches” that evolved into non-alcoholic versions just before the Civil War. By the 1860’s, iced tea was commonplace in the North—where they had a long history of harvesting ice from frozen lakes and ponds—but in the South ice didn’t exactly grow on trees, and to make iced tea, you need ice.
In the early 1900’s, ice began to be shipped from the North down to Southern states, but it was expensive, which made iced tea a drink for the genteel upper-class who could afford to buy ice and an icebox to store it. Then the Tennessee Valley Authority brought electrification—and, consequently, refrigeration—to the masses, spawning the arrival of iced tea for and by the people.
Sugar, on the other hand, actually has roots in Louisiana thanks to Jesuit priests and the knowledge of Haitian refugees and slaves, so it’s not much of a stretch to see how Southerners would turn to sugar to counter the natural bitterness of tea. There is some debate, however, about just how sweet sweet tea should be, and when to add the sugar—in the kitchen while the tea’s still hot, or at the table when served.
The basic recipe for sweet, Southern, iced tea requires a culinary skill level just one step above boiling water. Brew a few bags of Luzianne or Lipton tea, pour the hot tea and an unnatural amount of sugar into a pitcher, add water to dilute to taste, stir and serve over ice (lemon slices optional). How much sugar you use is up to you and your endocrinologists, but typically it’s somewhere between drinking a Coca-Cola and eating enough candy corn to dissolve your teeth.
We know from early recipes and the existence of tall tea glasses and stirring spoons that there is historical precedence for serving guests unsweetened tea with a bowl of sugar at the table for them to use as necessary. This is behavior from a dark chapter in our past that should never be foisted on anyone ever again. If I request sweet tea and you bring me cold, unsweetened tea and packets of sugar, I will release the hounds of hell upon your very being—in that I will say, “Bless your heart” and roll my eyes as you walk away. Make sweet tea sweet, and leave unsweetened for those forced into a sugar-deprived existence.
Southern food and sweet tea go together like morning glory seeds and cats; iwt’s really impossible to enjoy one fully without the other. No one wants to wash down a plate of fried chicken with a glass of water and pulled pork just isn’t the same without a big glass of sweet iced tea. So pull up a chair on the front porch, make yourself a big pitcher of the “house wine of the South,” and chill.
Mike McJunkin is a native Chattanoogan who has traveled abroad extensively, trained chefs, and owned and operated restaurants. Join him on Facebook at facebook.com/SushiAndBiscuits