Passion of the Cornbread

Early birds don't wait in line for cornbread.

One must wake early to sample cornbread without a lengthy wait. South Pittsburg taught me that much.

Nancy and I pulled out of Murfreesboro just after 6 a.m. Saturday. Up in Nashville, the corrals of the Country Music Marathon began to fill. I’d had my fill of that race two years ago, when a humid, overcast day left my calves knotted and cramped. Last year I landed in Vermont. This year I vowed to find an alternate, even if it meant an early departure.

The alternate emerged: South Pittsburg, Tenn. Past Monteagle and a bridge away from Alabama, the small town hosted the National Cornbread Festival and more importantly, a 5K before the gates opened.

A slightly hazy morning gave way to a dense fog blanketing the mountains southeast of Monteagle along the Tennessee River. The temperatures stayed moderate as we skirted around South Pittsburg’s main drag, which the festival had overtaken. Carnival rides loomed over the brick historic district. By the time I collected my race packet, the starting line beckoned. There, a man press a pamphlet into my hand for a mud race. I nodded in thanks and when he walk away, I realized he wore overalls cut off at the knee and at both butt cheeks. Fortunately, he wore running shorts underneath. Had he not, I would have had no problem running as fast as possible.

 With a pistol shot, the small field sprinted away from the festival, through the high school campus and into the city's neighborhoods.

The pack departs the festival.

If I hoped to escape hills, I picked the wrong race. This 5K spent its first mile slowly rising up above South Pittsburg. The second went straight for the hills, culminating with a humid slog around a hillside park deep in a neighborhood. With less than a mile left, it turned downhill. For the side stitches and the humid moments that dominated the Cornbread Festival 5K, the last mile was easy on the legs.

As slow as I am, I actually felt fine going into the final turns. South Pittsburg police cruisers blocked some of the larger streets. I had to prod at one of the young officers, shouting, “You better not turn that radar gun on me.” He laughed heartily.

I finished at a slower time than I would have liked, but I can’t complain when a race features steep hills. I dropped with sweat; for so short a distance, the humidity turned an otherwise balmy spring morning into the middle of summer. 

Running had its benefits- free admission to the festival and Cornbread Alley.  The artist booths of the festival were littered with folk art from some pretty obscure corners of the South – one man sold canjos, a one-stringed instrument with a wooden neck and a Spam can for a body, another sold metal insects crafted around bullets. The stranger vendors rubbed off on everyone selling their wares.

Nancy displays the delicacies of Cornbread Alley.

 When stomachs rumbled, it came time for Cornbread Alley, where $4 bought a plate of cornbread. At 9:30 a.m., there was no line. At  9:40, the people flooded the entire waiting area, as half the festival crowd collectively smelled the marquee food at once.

What a bounty the ladies of Monroe County provided. Given the girth of many festivalgoers, the bounty was probably small snack for many. But for us, it sat well.
  
Several cornbread treats were deep-fried, including an excellent specimen with rotel chiles. Others succeeded with dessert cornbread (raspberry, pineapple cream cheese), and cornfetti was a meal unto itself (spinach, bacon, carrots and more).

The standard row of fair food and deep-fried candy bars littered the grounds, but really, no festivalgoer needed walk past Cornbread Alley.

None tasted bad, several were exquisite, all came from local cooks, even the local Democratic women's club (who knew such a group still existed in rural Tennessee).

Due to its speed, we missed the cornbread eating and buttermilk chug contest. We resigned ourselves to leaving. Besides, what act would want to follow that bout of gastrointestinal punishment?

The sun had come out in time for a quick shot with the Big Green Egg. I won't tell you how long it took to figure out it was a grill of some sorts. But give them credit for strong marketing. I imagine an ill-timed hug with a real Big Green Egg might result in some severe burns, but not this guy.

Admit it. You want to hug him too.

By 10:30, we had our fill of cornbread, and my afternoon shift at the wine store demanded we return. The festival had only begun and people already clogged the streets of South Pittsburg. The fog had burnt off, long columns of cars queued at the exit ramps. As humid as the air had felt, running for cornbread didn't feel like a bad tradeoff.