Sugar in cornbread? That’s blasphemy!

William Northcutt is a writer for the State Gazette and former Professor of English at Dyersburg State

Reporting for the State Gazette, I’ve learned that on our social media pages, one topic gets more responses from readers than any other—potholes. I could write a story about a nuclear attack on the Dyer County Courthouse, and it wouldn’t draw as many “likes or angry faces” and comments on our social media pages. Even though most of the roads with long-unrepaired potholes are state roads, people get fired up, angry at the city. Some people make comic remarks, and others express dismay. Still others talk about the destruction to their vehicles. In any case, potholes elicit strong responses.

On my private social media pages, I sometimes like to gently provoke my friends, my readers. Last night, I stumbled upon a subject that drew responses equal to or greater than the topic of potholes: sugar in cornbread.

I posted a photo of my almost perfect skillet of cornbread (pardon my lack of modesty)—turned upside down onto a plate. And I wrote, “Steamy co’n pone. Savory. Not even one grain of sugar—because I’m not a Yankee.”

Now I have many friends from the Northern climes, and half of my Southern buds said they like a bit of sugar in their cornbread. My statement touched a nerve, though. People are not neutral on the subject. In fact, folks were downright serious about their preference.

Many said that a parent or grandparent put/puts sugar in theirs, so that’s the way it should be. Others agreed with me: “If I want something sweet, I’ll eat cake,” to paraphrase a few comments.

I moved to Connecticut to study at UConn in 1989. It’s always interesting to go to grocery stores in other places and to see what foods people eat. But I was homesick for Southern food, and we went to the bakery section of the store, and there it was: cornbread. I was so excited.

I bought a sack of white beans to soak, but I had to have a tiny taste of the cornbread. To my disappointed surprise, it was as sweet as a Twinkie. I spat it out and shivered at the horrors New England had committed. First they burn women, calling them witches and now this??? How could they ever take something as wonderful as cornbread and ruin it with sugar.

Well, sweet cornbread is enough to make a man curse his fate. It soured my entire experience up there. You could get a decent bowl of chili, but who wants to eat chili alongside sweet cornbread.

When we drove home and got below the Mason Dixon line, I couldn’t wait to go into a diner and hear a waitress with her hair tied up in a bun say, “You wawnt sum coffee, hun?” Ah, the courteous South. I knew that’d I’d get some cornbread worth eating.”

Cornbread is a source of pride in my family. I learned from my mother, who learned from her mother, who learned from her mother, etc. But my Mom had the magic touch. When Osama bin Laden was hiding out, my Dad said, “I’ll tell you how to catch him—wave a piece of your Mama’s cornbread outside those caves, and he’d come running.” I said, “Dad, only a country boy would think you could solve the world’s problems with Mom’s cornbread.”

Maybe he was right. If cornbread can elicit 40 likes on my social media post, maybe it would have held sway with bin Laden. Maybe cornbread is the key to world peace. It draws as many responses as posts about potholes. It brings out strong feelings.