Crop Stories is a biannual journal that digs deep into relationships between farmer and field, consumer and market, soil and table. Each issue adopts one crop as a theme, then applies narrative, journalism, and recipe to meditate on the state of the small farm in the American South. 

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A colorful oil painting hangs near the front door inside fisherman Eddie Willis’ second-story home on Harkers Island, North Carolina. It was a Christmas gift from his wife, Alison. In the foreground is Willis’ mother, Dora, seated on a bench with his then-two-year-old daughter, Maggie. Behind them, Willis, in a white tee and black bib overalls, pulls the heads off shrimp. The key figure, though, is Alberto Morales, hat on backwards, head down like Willis, lost in the mundane pleasure of fish-house work. Morales is Willis’ fishing partner. Willis calls him “the other me.” On any given day, it is hard to find one without the other.

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It’s safe to say that sweetness is not part of the modern day election rhetoric. As this season veers off into fetid bitterness as tasty as a rusty nail, a few bakers are uniting on a platform more pleasing: for life, liberty, and election cake for all.

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Drive north out of Durham on US-501, and the cityscape dissssipates into long stretches of road flanked by open pasture and an ever-widening horizon. Just a few miles up the country road, in Bahama, North Carolina, a few of the most talented barbecue cooks in the South are gathering together for a weekend honoring the centuries-old tradition of cooking animals over slow-burning coals—barbecue.

Photo credit: Andrew Kornylak

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The undisputed champion of tang in the baking world is none other than the versatile, wonder staple known as buttermilk. This prized liquid, traditionally what’s left after churning fresh cream into butter, gets its star power from its ability to collude with baking powder and lift biscuits to new heights. Buttermilk breaks down gluten to soften the crumb of your favorite cake, while the lactic acid and its signature zing makes pies, scones, and breads sing. Buttermilk ain’t too proud to play backup, either. It often employs subtle nuances to add depth and complexity of flavor to whatever it is added to.

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Travis Milton is distinctive, the kind of person you could easily pick out in a crowd. The chef de cuisine at Comfort in Richmond, Virginia, Milton is tall and physically imposing, though his demeanor is approachably humble. His trademark “Virginia Is for Lovers” cap, stained and worn from hours in the kitchen, tamps his brown curls into restful  submission.

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When summer temperatures rise to a sweltering crescendo, the okra plant thrives. The African native, generally known for its slender green seedpods, flourishes in tropical and subtropical climates. That is, okra is at its best when the heat is most unbearable. In fact, the okra plant remains coolly unaffected when humidity permeates the air, thick as cotton, and pests swarm the fringes of our sanity.

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Moss comes from a working-class family. His father is a welder and his father’s father was a welder. “In the fifties, my father would barbecue chicken to make extra money,” says Terrell Moss. “Mama would make a washtub of potato salad and serve it with a half chicken and two slices of bread.”

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Author and food luminary Ronni Lundy drove more than 4,000 miles across the mountains of southern Appalachia in her “reliable but roughcountenanced Chevy Astro van” to seek out the voices and stories of her people. In her latest book Victuals (pronounced vidls), she connects the dots from past to present with stories, recipes, and stunning imagery shot by photographer Johnny Autry.

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The activity inside the home of Luca and Jessica Annunziata defies the drizzly and unseasonably cold weather outside. Inside, we are gathered around the kitchen table drinking San Pellegrino with fat wedges of blood oranges.

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Jamie Swofford keeps a yellow legal pad attached to a clipboard with his daily list of farm tasks carefully written and categorized into "inside" and "outside" duties. The list, which he usually writes the day before, is further broken down to the specific areas of the property on which he farms. Years of getting crushed by volume in the harried restaurant kitchens of Charlotte taught him a thing or two about organization and preparedness.

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Vivian Tong spent the first four years of her life in New York City’s Chinatown. A first-generation child of Chinese immigrants raised in an all-Chinese environment, she spoke Cantonese at home and spent a year in Hong Kong with her family. There, they shopped daily in open-air markets where crowds clamored for the freshest seafood and street carts sold steaming hot bowls of noodles. When she moved to Mooresville 30 years ago, it was culture shock. 

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It’s Thursday afternoon inside Kindred Restaurant, one of the newest additions to the quaint college town of Davidson, just 20 minutes north of Charlotte, North Carolina. Servers fill the cushy leather bar stools, folding stacks of linens atop the sleek marble bar and actively awaiting lineup, which begins promptly at 4:30 p.m. Kitchen staff emerge from the basement kitchen in procession, bearing hands full of small plates for the servers to sample and deconstruct.

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