Cheese Straws

Someone once asked me what my north star is, and without hesitation, I replied, “Wonder.” Wonder has always been my guide and anchor, and it is wonder that feeds my fascination with the infinitely iterated, essential Southern staple: the cheese straw.

On the back of my home refrigerator, I have a mini museum of various versions of cheese straws, each housed in individual antique canning jars, which hold special significance for me. They are markers of my journey back to my home state of Alabama and my present life in its Black Belt region, one of the most fascinating places on the planet.

There is a delicate wreath-shaped example, expertly formed by pressing the rich dough through a cookie press and then baked with precision to an orange-flecked, buttery crispness without so much as a rumor of browning. It takes a master to produce such a wonder, and I was gifted a tin of these rarities, an act of great generosity, by the maker herself as a welcoming gift when I moved to Marion in 2010.

Next to it sits an even rarer artifact of the genre, made by Irene Garrigus to be served at her 100th birthday celebration. I met Irene early in my journey as I turned my gaze back toward Alabama after living more than three decades in Atlanta, and she convinced me by example that Alabama, by virtue of its cheese straw traditions alone, was worthy of deeper consideration. Her cheese straw was a tiny, cayenne-speckled turnover made by rolling the dough out wafer-thin and then stamping out rounds with the end of an orange juice concentrate can that for decades had served as her biscuit, cookie, and cheese straw cutter. “Now, it’s not shiny or pretty — and you won’t be either when you get to be as old as it is,” she told me.

On each round, Irene placed a single toasted pecan half and then folded over and crimped the dough into a half-moon. She made at least a thousand for her party, and they received almost as much attention as she did. When she spied me tucking several into a cocktail napkin before secreting them in my jacket pocket, she motioned me over. “I saw what you just did, and it makes me very happy.”

It has been my experience that in the South, one’s preferences in cheese straws are as much a part of personal identity as the college football team you cheer for or the church you do or do not attend. It is a tradition deserving of respect, yet not everyone regards it with reverence.

Many years ago in Montgomery, Alabama, I recorded an interview with the outspoken and divinely stylish Dodgie Shaffer. Dodgie was a great collector and keeper of traditions and friends and an unequaled storyteller. However, as much as she valued ritual, she was an iconoclast when it came to the sacred subject of cheese straws.

“In my opinion, cheese straws are vastly overrated,” Dodgie told me. “They are an institution. You can’t have a wedding, you can’t have a funeral, you can’t have a guest without cheese straws. Well, I can.” A few years ago, when Dodgie died, her “true, deep, heartfelt feelings about cheese straws” were widely circulated and became an epitaph of sorts, something she would have delighted in. I was a pallbearer at her funeral, and when deciding what food I would take as tribute, the choice was obvious.

Perhaps because I didn’t grow up in a cheese straw–making household, they have always seemed slightly exotic to me, but I’ve made this recipe a lot over the years, and it is my go-to recipe to this day. My friend and collaborator Edna Lewis and I included a recipe for them in Food & Wine for a Thanksgiving feature story in 1998 and in our 2003 cookbook, The Gift of Southern Cooking.

The unusual thing about the recipe is the way you cut the dough into strips rather than forcing it through a press or rolling it out into coins. I tip my hat to Miss Lewis on that. She baked the dough in long strips; over time, I began to make those strips a little more individual, sometimes slightly twisted or curved. You can stand them up to serve them, which I think makes them a little less precious. It helps to use unbleached all-purpose flour; it’s stronger than traditional, soft, Southern bleached flour, especially, and it also bonds with the fat better, making the finished straws sturdier.

Cheese straws ripen in flavor and benefit from being made ahead, which is a bonus. They are nice to have in the arsenal, something that isn’t temperature-sensitive or has to go straight from the oven in front of a large gathering of people.

And you don’t have to be Southern to savor them. I remember the 1998 photo shoot for Food & Wine in New York City. The photographer and crew, almost all non-Southerners, were comparing the cheese straws to the best Goldfish they’d ever eaten, which I totally get. Who doesn’t like Goldfish? — Scott Peacock

Your new favorite make-ahead snack

These cheese straws can be made up to one month ahead and frozen — and as Peacock explains, they can actually improve with time. You can also freeze the dough before baking. One tester noted, “From other cheese straw adventures, I can tell you that this cheese straw dough freezes exceptionally well. I would freeze the pieces after cutting into sticks — bake from frozen, adding a minute or two to total bake time, or thaw overnight in the fridge and then bake.” 

Notes from the Food & Wine Test Kitchen

These cheese straws have a curvy, playful presentation; if you prefer a straight straw, skip wiggling the dough before baking.