Cajun Chow Chow

Every Cajun kitchen has a jar of chow chow within arm's reach. It's the condiment that makes everything better. Spoon it over red beans and rice. Pile it on a smoked sausage po'boy. Serve it alongside fried catfish. Or do what my grandmother Evangeline did: eat it straight from the jar with a fork while standing at the kitchen counter, because sometimes you just need that hit of tangy, crunchy, spicy goodness.

Chow chow came to Louisiana with the Acadians, those French Canadians who settled the bayou country and turned scarcity into flavor. End of summer meant green tomatoes still on the vine when frost threatened. Instead of letting them rot, they chopped them up with whatever else was growing, pickled the whole mess, and put it up for winter. Necessity made tradition. Tradition made something beautiful.

The key to great chow chow is balance. You want the sharp bite of vinegar tempered by enough sugar to round the edges. You want crunch from the vegetables, so don't overcook them. And you want warmth from the spices, that golden color from turmeric and the little pop of mustard seeds in every bite. At Lagniappe, we make fifty gallons every August when the green tomatoes come in. Our guests go through it faster than we can jar it.