Cliff Finch and Brunswick Stew

When I get through my current backlog of books to write, I have an idea for one titled “The Foods of Mississippi,” which would be equal parts food, people, and politics. It isn’t easy to separate the three the way my mind works.

I write sometimes about what I call “Mississippi Camelot,” which was the administration of William Winter. What I leave out sometimes is that Winter made several runs at the job before he actually got it. The Governor wasn’t the kind of man to sacrifice his principals for votes, which cost him. One of the characters who beat him into the Governor’s Mansion was a gentleman by the name of Cliff Finch. I’m being generous in describing him now.

Some men have an entourage; my father had a crew. Fairly democratic, they took turns as the point man, absorbing the slings and arrows thrown at them, which happened often. Moderate Democrats fought an uphill battle in a state filled with DixieCrats and DixieRepublicans, which were DixieCrats in new suits. Speaking reason to Mississippi’s issues of race and poverty is never a popular stance.

The crew included two Delta guys and two Jackson guys, my Dad, Rowan Taylor, Charlie Deaton, and Robert Wingate. From Greenwood, Wingate was the only boy child of my grandfather’s sister. Rowan and Dad were members of the last class of the fabled “Capitol Street Gang” in Jackson. Stuart Irby’s politics aligned with theirs often enough to be included in the crew, but, being Presbyterian, he didn’t drink enough.

Finding himself not a good fit for some of the other clusters of Democrats in Mississippi, Charlie Deaton joined the crew because Rowan and Dad were strong proponents of education bills, and he played tennis with Wingate. Deaton was famous for his legislation, hunting, and good looks. The last time he announced his retirement (there were several), the Clarion-Ledger ran a half-page article about him beginning with his “Matinee idol Good Looks.”

Soft-spoken and stoic, Rowan Taylor was the philosopher of the group. He read more than any man I ever knew. Rowan once took a class from a woman who promised to teach him how to read Eudora Welty. He was so impressed he married her. They used to say that the only way into Miss Eudora’s entourage was to be either really, really smart or really, really queer. Rowan was the only one who got in by marriage.

One day, I took a figure drawing class from Bebe Wolfe. Jackie Meena, Edwina Goodman, and Rowan also took the class. A sickly-looking fella came in wearing a terry cloth robe, which he dropped to reveal his full naked glory and assume a pose. I think Rowan was okay with me being there, but the presence of these ladies and the wives of his peers made him uncomfortable, so he only lasted a few lessons. Mrs. Goodman and Mrs. Meena finished the course. Although I loved Bill Goodman, I always got along better with his wife. She could sort of understand what I was trying to do in life, while Bill tended to side with the folks who thought I should drop all this art bullshit and get serious about things.

Democrats in the Greenwood part of the Delta used to put on a big fais-do-do at the beginning of Duck Season. I say the “Greenwood part” of the Delta because, despite what you heard, the Delta was never monolithic. Greenwood and Greenville never got along. Nobody trusted the Clarksdale people. Vicksburg folks gambled too much, and everybody hated the bastards in Memphis. Technically, Natchez isn’t part of the Delta, but they don’t act like it.

For most of the twentieth century, Delta Democrats met outside Greenwood for a Brunswick stew and a duck hunt. Deaton and Robert Wingate invited my Dad and Rowan Taylor. Daddy brought along my brother Joe and me in an attempt to make up for all the quality time his career made impossible. As much as I loved my daddy, I would have easily gone without him to spend time with Deaton and Cousin Robert.

The guest of honor at this shindig was the current governor, a man named Cliff Finch. People not from here who read my stories could convince themselves Cliff Finch was somebody I made up. I assure you, he was very real.

The centerpiece of this event was a gigantic cast iron pot in which a team of Mississippi Daddy Chefs would cook Brunswick Stew. Brunswick stew is an amalgam of farm-fresh winter vegetables and whatever meats were available. In this case, it was three or four pork roasts and a couple dozen chickens. On Saturday, we’d cut up all the vegetables and meats to go in the pot, let it cook overnight, and serve it up for lunch on Sunday.

Saturday morning, Wingate and Rowan stayed behind to cut onions and carrots while Daddy, my brother, Deaton, and I went out with a guide to hunt ducks around five-thirty am. Some crews went out to blinds, and some hunted from a Pirogue. Being the most serious hunter of the group, Deaton decided that our group would go out primitive, wearing chest waders and stand waist-deep in a cypress swamp to wait for the ducks—in December. That you can easily freeze to death while duck hunting never seemed to stop anybody.

I’m not a terrible shot, but I’m easily distracted. Our guide snapped his finger and pointed to a duck coming in close to me. I fired, but it was too late; my shotgun blew off the top half of this poor duck. At least he didn’t suffer. We gave our portion of the kill to Deaton, who was also an excellent cook besides being an excellent hunter.

Making our way back to the farm warehouse where the cooking pot was, I saw Rowan and Wingate standing around a folding table covered in newspaper, picking the chicken meat off the bone. Deaton and I joined them. Daddy went off to hotbox some Senator. This was a working trip, after all.

Deaton poured a sip of his whiskey into my Coke can. “Don’t tell your daddy.” He said.

“Don’t tell your daddy that Deaton has anything to drink!” Robert Wingate said, laughing.

Drinking was, and is, part of male bonding. For a while, I was a traitor and started to drink girl drinks because the bartender at Scrooges mothered me, but that phase didn’t last long. Even though I was just thirteen, Daddy had already given me a couple of sips of his peach brandy. Drinking while standing in water near the freezing point perhaps wasn’t the smartest thing to do, but that’s what testing your manhood is about.

Rowan said, “I gave Frank some of the ducks we shot yesterday and told him to throw them at the governor every time he missed one.” Deaton and Robert Wingate laughed.

I don’t know who “Frank” was, but I suspect he belonged to a small army of black men who made events like this possible without being invited to the table. In the mid-seventies, you could tell Mississippi was on the Rubicon of change. Soon, Bennie Thompson and Ruben Anderson would break the barrier and earn their place at the table. Thompson is too machiavellian to spend much time standing around in the cold, picking chicken meat off the bone and sipping whiskey, but Judge Anderson would have fit right in. In later parties, he did.

An accountant with a JD degree, Robert Wingate never showed much emotion when he spoke. Filled with nervous energy, his body moved like an angry rooster. Nodding toward Rowan’s comment about the governor, he said, “You know, that sumbitch thinks he’s Huey Long!” Rowan and Deaton laughed; I made a mental note to look up Huey Long when I got home.

I asked my mom, thinking this Long guy must be a Mississippi politician the crew didn’t like. She told me to look in the Encyclopedia Britannica about him. The Encyclopedia described him using language similar to how they described Hitler and Stalin. I was fascinated.

Last night, my friend from San Diego messaged me, saying she had just seen “All The King’s Men” on TCM and wanted to know more about this Long fella. Did I know anything about him?

“Well, I used to carry around his great-granddaughter,” I replied.

“??”” She texted me back.

“We dated,” I replied. Sometimes, my Mississippi way of using words hinders clear communication.

I suspect Cliff Finch probably did think he was Huey Long in the making. He would eventually run for President, but he clocked in about a tenth of the power of Huey Long. I’ve known a lot of Mississippi governors who thought they were much more than they were, and only two, Mabus and Winter, were pretty much exactly as advertised.

For a while, I worked with a guy to prepare for his gubernatorial debates. I made it pretty clear that I wouldn’t accept pay and that I was only working for him because I liked his policies. Talking about his plans for the future, he told me confidently that “it doesn’t end here.” meaning the Governorship. I thought to myself, “You poor deluded fool.” Even though he won the Governorship, it did indeed, end right there.

The next day, we all stood around, anxiously waiting to taste this stew that had been bubbling all night. Constant stirring and slow cooking separated all the meat fibers, making it a thick, fairly consistent meat pudding. They laid out folding tables covered with newspaper, whole loaves of wonder bread and butter, and cardboard bowls ready for stew.

Deaton thumbed me in the back and gestured to my coke with a pint of JD in his hand. He christened me with a sip. Daddy laughed.

The stew was remarkably good. I’ve had other Brunswick Stews, but none were as full-bodied as this. Good hunters are often excellent cooks.

The Governor came in with an entourage of sycophants, smiling and shaking hands. Serving up a bowl of stew, Finch flashed a million-dollar smile, and flashbulbs went off. Amidst all this, he either brought his photographers or alerted the press. Either one was a bit uncomfortable.

“It’s December, why is he so tan?” I said.

“That somebitch,” Daddy said, laughing and tasting his stew.