For almost 30 years I have been trying to convince people north of South Carolina that boiled peanuts were one of the best and worst things you can put in your mouth. Best because they are so damned tasty. Worst because they are so damned salty. And like every Southern contradiction, that is why the boiled peanut works.
Now I read that boiled peanuts are all the rage in New York City, a place where people treated me like I had farted in church for even mentioning the concept of boiled peanuts. Now it’s a delicacy in all of the hop places. I am both proud and hurt because I tried my ass off to get people to see the brilliance of boiling peanuts. Hell, even people here in Virginia look at me like I wore blue jeans to a UVA game when I mention them.
I have written countless stories and blogs about boiled peanuts for so many years that I will not waste your time now to go into exactly what it means to boil and eat them. Google it if you don’t know. Or go to a chic NYC eatery.
I have four bags of boiled peanuts waiting in my freezer right now. And these four bags came from people in Alabama who treat boiling peanuts like Brett Favre treats a football: with vigorous respect and un-retireable loyalty. Down home it is an art, a vice, a sin and a religion. I suppose the same people who are freaked out about sucking the heads of crawfish feel the same way about boiled peanuts. It is just too yucky. And that’s what makes it perfect.
One New York chef boils his goobers then deep-fries them. I have never tried that but it sounds like trying to convince a Crimson Tide fan that football is fun to watch. I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt before I say it is clichéd overkill. But damn, only a northerner would misunderstand the relationship between a boiled peanut and a deep fryer.
Still, I’m going to have to give it a try. How could I not?
