Fried Okra

— Uncle Ray’s —

$6 / March 2022

Growing up in metro New York, fried food may have been part of some cultures, but surely not mine. Not on any level. My parents had an electric fryer. My mother would trot it out once a year, plug it in, and eventually out came zucchini with a 4C bread-crumb coating (or something akin to it).

The zucchini looked pretty, fried food almost always does, but I was having none of it. Rumor was there was a Kentucky Fried Chicken in a neighboring town, or I suppose you could find a Chicken McNugget in a different suburb, but it would be difficult to say fried food had even reached concept status where I lived, when I lived there.

My South Louisiana-born wife, however, probably never had grilled, sauteed or rotisserie chicken (this would be health food, after all, even with the skin) until she reached adulthood — and living in another state. This isn’t like saying you never encountered poke until you were in your 20s. If you didn’t live in Hawaii or were fortunate enough to visit there, of course you hadn’t. But really? Fried food all the time? You can deep-fry almost anything?

Like many a besotted boyfriend, it didn’t take much of a push for me to gravitate to the beauty of her native cuisine. Fried shrimp platter? Catfish po’boy? (The “fried” is implied.) Sign me up! But all these years (and pounds) later, there’s one fried food that resonates with me more than any other: okra. A green vegetable? Maybe I’ve come full circle. Don’t tell my mother.

A few years ago, we discovered a food hall growing in Mississippi. Unlike a decent amount of what I write, that’s no exaggeration. Food halls may be found in urban areas almost everywhere, but Jackson’s — Cultivation Food Hall — is the only one in the state, at least as of this writing. And it’s a stand-alone, no mall to be found, right off Interstate 55. It’s also the nicest one of its kind I’ve been to, anywhere, as clean and linear and comfortable as, say, the Plaza’s in New York, half as upscale, with no shtick, attitude or attendant costs.

Now, no drive from Nashville to Louisiana is complete without a stop there. On the latest pass-through, a nice-sized silver fry basket of Uncle Ray’s fried okra (with creole honey mustard) found its way to my outdoor table. I don’t think there’s much I can add to the photo, the sheer glory of the fried okra speaks for itself. So I’ll let it.