Edward Swif
Many things started in San Miguel and continued here and elsewhere. One of them is the immensely popular cookbook: White Trash Cooking by the late Ernest Matthew Mickler. Ernie lived in San Miguel in the 70s and 80s. We met in 1979. Walking rapidly in opposite directions we turned the corner of Relox and San Francisco and literally collided. In such proximity there was nothing to do except introduce ourselves.
Right off the bat, he told me that he was trying to put together a cookbook, The Guide to the Art of White Trash Cooking.” (The title was later shortened.) He was having a hard time typing the manuscript so I agreed to lend a hand.
Before long we were sitting across the dining table at the house of Robert Fangue where Ernie lived at the time. While the maid served squash blossom quesadillas, Ernie brought forth a shoe box full of recipes. They were written on the backs of envelopes, on brown paper bags, on any scrap of paper, and almost all of them were attributed to a friend or a relative in the south. Ernie had grown up in rural Florida, so he came by white trash cooking naturally.
Over many lunches, we ate whatever the maid prepared: gorditas, enchiladas, tacos, sopes, and while pigging out Ernie would pull a recipe from the shoe box and read it in the voice of the cook. I would type the recipe word for word as it came out of his mouth, and we would laugh hysterically over the titles: Tutti’s Fruited Porkettes, Freda’s Five Can Casserole, Kiss Me Not Sandwich; and the special instructions: “Bake until done.” “Let it stand two days before eating.” “Cool and cover with Reddi Whip.”
By the end of the summer when it was time for me to leave San Miguel, Ernie decided he needed a few more recipes to flesh out the book, so I gave him names and addresses of Texas relatives who, I felt confident, would send him their trashiest culinary creations. Most of them responded with pleasure, and not surprisingly, a few years later the book was published to enormous acclaim. Everyone got such a kick out of it except one of my fancy cousins who had contributed a recipe. She blew her stack. And it wasn’t pleasant. “Why didn’t he give the book a nicer title?” she screamed. “I am not a piece of trailer-trash!” I told her what Ernie always said: »There’s white trash and there’s White Trash. Manners and pride separate the two.” But my cousin didn’t get it, and to this day we avoid this touchy subject.
Before long Ernie was on every talk show in American, and money was rolling in. Ultimately the book sold zillions of copies and is still selling, but unfortunately, he didn’t live to enjoy his success to the fullest. In 1988, two years after publication, he died of AIDS at his home in Moccasin Branch, Florida. He was only 48 and his life was, and still is, celebrated by thousands of friends and devoted cooks.
As far as I know, he died with two lawsuits hanging over his head; one involved the cover girl sitting on a pile of watermelons. Ernie told me she was about half-way retarded and didn’t mind being photographed for the cover. But apparently her family did. The other lawsuit came from the Junior League of Charleston, South Carolina. The league accused Ernie of copying 27 recipes out of a Junior League Cookbook from the 1950s.
The lawyer representing the Junior League somehow got my name and called me up. He wanted to know where Ernie had gotten the recipes.
“They came out of a shoe box,” I said.
“What kind of shoe box?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did the shoe box come from a store in Charleston?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Did you see a copy of the Junior League Cookbook in the shoe box?”
“No I did not.”
“Well what exactly did you have to do with the book, Mr. Swift.”
“I typed the first draft and ate a lot of tacos while doing it.”
The lawyer, who was at wits end over all this, called me several times and finally in total exasperation, he said, “Now they want me to go to San Miguel and talk to everyone involved with the book.” I told him that he should by all means go to San Miguel to chill out, but never mind trying to track down Ernie’s sources. “You’re making a huge issue over a hand full of recipes that have been passed around for ages in the South. They don’t belong to anyone.”
“Try telling that to the Junior League,” he said. “I just want to get all these women off my back.”
Then we hung up, and I never heard from him again. Surely the stupid case was dropped.
This proved to me that you can write almost anything about anyone’s private life, but don’t mess with a favorite recipe. You’ll be in trouble if you do. Of course, if Ernie had been alive he would have gone to the Junior League and charmed the pants off those ladies, but unfortunately, the story does not end there; the story of White Trash Cooking has no end. It started in San Miguel and is still continuing here and elsewhere. When I started writing this article I posted a Face Book alert asking if I could borrow a copy of this beloved book. Many people said, “No!” They didn’t trust me to return it. It is just that coveted.
My great sorrow is that Ernie didn’t live to see the continuing success of his magnificent creation: a book that has given us so much joy accompanied by tasty/trashy dinners prepared in his memory. Ernie was totally engaging, full of crazy stories about growing up in rural Florida. Always laughing, always bragging about the accomplishments of his friends, he was a bright light in our lives, and to this day I cannot turn the corner of San Francisco and Relox without bumping into his happy spirit. For many of us he’s still part of this city. He still roams these beautiful streets searching for the best taco, the best gordita, a new restaurant, a new recipe, a new friend.
