My Family’s Christmas Cooking Tradition: Chitlins aka Chitterlings with the recipe

Chitterlings are part of my childhood memories my mom and sister both taught me their recipe, my version is a combination of both. The smell reminds me of getting ready to go to my Auntie or my Momo house.

My little sister, Dionne Miller, has taken over making my family’s annual Christmas Chitterling cooking and has twerked my Mama’s original recipe some, but they are still delicious. Nowadays, people from up from either hearing the word “Chitterling” complain of the smell, and lots of people have turned away from pork entirely.

But there are still some of us who love this delicacy, and we continue to cook Chitterlings to remind ourselves that our ancestors made the worst pieces of the meat thrown to them taste delicious, and now 5-star restaurants serve them.

When slavery was legal in America, slave owners commonly fed their slaves as cheaply as possible. At hog butchering time, the best cuts of meat were kept for the master’s household, and the remainder, such as fatback, snouts, ears, neck bones, feet, and intestines, were given to the slaves.

Many Black Americans have discarded Chitlins because of its tie to slavery.

“We can now eat what we want.” Are our thoughts. While eating Chitlin’s was very popular in the early 1900’s they have been reduced to a ritual that some adhere to for family traditions but have been slowly taken out of our regular meals. Source:http://portlandobserver.com/news/2014/jan/08/chitlins-slave-food-delicacy-black-american-kitche/

We cook chitterlings every year, but we eat them once a year unless someone requests them. Plus, it’s a tedious job to properly clean Chitterlings, and I’ve been doing it since I was 5 years old. I think it’s fun sitting at the table with a family member with a towel under your elbows catching all the drippings while we talk and have cocktails. Whoever would be able to clean, peel the bad part off a long piece would have bragging rights, and it was typically me.

So, don’t frown up or say Chitterlings are nasty. At one point in life, our ancestors had no choice but to turn scraps into a delicious meal after the slave owners had them butcher the aminals, keeping the best cuts of meats for them and giving the slaves remainder which was the pig snouts, ears, neck bones, feet, and intestines.

Image may contain: text           Chitterlings are now hashtagged as soulfood.

Grab a bucket and have some fun with the kids pulling the intestines apart just to get a feel and taste of how our ancestors experienced. I say don’t knock it till ya try it, and honestly, chitterlings do not smell bad as people claim. I have smelled much worse cooking in my years.


Aunt Bessie's precleaned Chitterlings
IBP UnCleaned Chitterlings always sold in a 10ld red bucket Aunt Bessie’s precleaned Chitterlings. but we still go over each one to ensure they are properly cleaned
Pot of cleaned Chitterlings that my sister cleaned all by herself. Happy Christmas Eve. Yesterday my oldest daughter sent me an article pertaining to death and traditions. I appreciated it so very much. We have lost family in the last couple of years that would make one not even wanna go there. I am encouraging myself this morning. Chitterlings are part of my childhood memories my mom and sister both taught me their recipe, my version is a combination of both. The smell reminds me a getting ready to go 😆 to my Auntie or my Momo house. Not very ppl eat them anymore but, I will continue to cook them. With all that said who want some??? My Auntie Grace Hollins not here to eat them all. 😆 Dionne Miller
Cooked Chitterlings over white rice
Cooked Chitterlings over white rice

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Image may contain: food
Source: My Sister Dionne Miller-      My Saturday night… Oh, how I would love to be cuddled up watching Family Guy….life a shi××ty situation right now y’all… I got jokes..who want some. Love u, Mama Florence. 1 down 5 more to go…


Red Chicken Tikka Masala Recipe Pinterest Graphic (2)Red Chicken Tikka Masala Recipe Pinterest Graphic (1).png

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Source: My Sister Dionne Miller So my chitterlings are done and my greedy niece over to test them out.
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Source: My Sister Dionne Miller Christmas Chitterlings 2018 — feeling festive at Montreal Courts.  

A native of New Orleans, who left her beloved New Orleans to spend twenty years of living in the land of Minnesota Not So Nice. Minnesota was full of opportunities but would learn that the soul of the state and the people who made it was just as icy cold as the temperatures. After the years and my 40th birthday flew by, I decided it was time to pack up my youngest child and come back to my roots, my birthplace the city that not only birthed me but gave me life. I would not be who I am without my New Orleans beginnings. I am all things that would challenge the belief of growing up in New Orleans. I was a 16yr old teen mother of a premature baby born with a severe medical disability. And only With the help of my mother, was it possible for me to BE! I was able to endure and survive the obstacles laid before my child and me. In a city that was built by my family, but did not allow for us to reap the benefits I overcame. Charity Hospital was my second home — a building filled with miracle workers who made it possible for my daughter to have life. I have lived a life of rainy days with peeks of sunshine, that are my children, including those not of my womb. I'm the proud mother of three and a grandmother of three. My dream was to live the life of the nursery rhyme of ”The Old Lady Who lived in a shoe,” and for the most part, I did. I cared for several children over the years as a special needs foster parent. I would learn that my love was not enough for some children, but I loved them through their pain. I'm not sure if I ever had a case of true love or came close to what love looks like on television, but I had my share of men and the mirage of love. I survived two abusive marriages. Though I longed to return to New Orleans on a daily bases, I must admit my move was one of the best decisions made for me. I am a college graduate; I was a successful entrepreneur. I coowned a soul food restaurant and catering company in Minnesota for 12 years. I developed the talent of creating custom cakes after the murder of my beloved cousin Melvin Paul. He survived Katrina only to go to Minneapolis six months later to be murdered over a parking spot dispute. But with the challenge of creating a simple wedding cake, I was able to find healing. I created the House of Cakes in honor of him. Minnesota life had me pretty materialistic. I worked to the point I do not remember much, but work and handing my children love money. I thought by having the big house on the hill, a husband, having a family, the ultimate provider and being involved in all things that matter, plus having the funds to match would cure me of what I was told was a generational curse of lack of everything from money, love to even self-love. But for the most part, that life poisoned my heart and soul. I was blinded by visions fed to me by the media. I was told I wasn't anything unless I was better than the Jones's. I lived being ok with a broken, bleeding heart. Life like this did not exist in my family while living in New Orleans from what I viewed with my eyes and soul. We may not have had all the things I acquired over the years, but we were happy, we were together. Family outside of New Orleans wasn't family anymore. We lived separate lives and had awkward moments when we bumped into each other in public. I hated living in Minnesota even though life their helped me in so many ways. I felt deep down the only way to repair it was to get back to my roots, my soul, my home, myself, my New Orleans. I'm here, and I love it. Even being in the so-called Blighted Area of New Orleans and not having all the financial and material security, I'm happy. I am determined that She, yes, New Orleans is a woman is just like me; together, we will overcome and will rise from all that tried to kill our spirit. Nothing like starting from the bottom and making your way back up!. I just know in my heart that New Orleans will provide for me. There's a bank account with funds in it owed to me by way of back pay for my ancestors. And I will receive my inheritance, and I will continue the traditions and customs of the old to keep the heartbeat of New Orleans beating. I'm down in the boot, living the life that feels right to me awaiting my destiny...

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