When Whiskey Woos Wine

Wine aged in bourbon barrels may be a passing fancy — or a taste here to stay

By Robyn James

My mother was a bourbon drinker, and to my surprise, my father and I were able to convert her to a wine drinker. At least I think we did: Knowing my mom, she may have faked it to make us happy. I say to my surprise, because she never could have swayed me in her direction. I would smell her bourbon drink, turn up my nose and refuse to even taste it. I couldn’t imagine two more polar opposite drinks.

The wine industry, unlike so many industries such as fashion or food, really doesn’t have any “trends.” We are steeped in tradition, the old ways are the best ways, and “fads” are frowned upon.

Recently, it has become impossible to ignore that we have, dare I say, a “fad” to contend with. Maybe it will stay, maybe it will go, but suddenly wine aged in whiskey barrels has become all the rage in my industry.

Weird because the opposite is usually true. Winemakers generally use new French or American oak barrels to age wine, a very expensive investment. Once they have gotten their one to three years’ use out of the barrels they usually sell them to whiskey distilleries to attempt to recoup some of the high investment. American distilleries are very patriotic, using only American oak. They appreciate the open grain of American oak that helps to soften the harshness of the whiskey. Winemakers lean toward the tighter French oak that imparts subtle vanilla flavors. Winemakers buying used barrels from distilleries seems totally backward.

What is the difference between a whiskey barrel and a wine barrel? Apparently a lot. When using a barrel for whiskey, the barrel is actually charred inside so the interior of the barrel acts like a carbon filter, softening and calming down the contents. The whiskey may stay in that barrel for 15 or more years. That never happens with wine. A wine barrel is never “charred,” it is “toasted” to different degrees. The toasting of a French wine barrel doesn’t filter or remove any flavors. It is destined to add flavors of vanilla and light tannins to the wine, enhancing it.

Because of the “aggressiveness” of the old whiskey barrels, the standard routine is to leave the wine in these barrels for only about three months to attempt to add a super subtle nuance of the bourbon.

The idea for this new “fad” came from Dan Phillips, an importer of French and Spanish wines and his good friend Julian Van Winkle, the owner of the cult crazy Pappy Van Winkle Distillery. Pappy Van Winkle whiskey is so sought after and has such small production that most liquor stores hold a lottery to sell the one bottle a year they may be allocated. And, that bottle may sell for anywhere from $750 to $2,000.

They launched the Southern Belle Spanish red wine, a blend of 50 percent syrah and 50 percent monastrell from Spain that is an absolute fruit bomb and delicious. I really didn’t get a big taste of bourbon influence here. It was extremely subtle, but I can see that winemakers are pushing up the alcohol content of the wine to compete with the whiskey flavors, so we have big, bold, fruity reds that knock your socks off. Southern Belle, made by Chris Ringland, one of the best winemakers in the world, is about $20 and worth every penny. It’s produced at Bodegas Juan Gil, one of the best vintners of monastrell in the world.

Mendocino’s 1,000 Stories zinfandel is aged in wine barrels prior to the old bourbon barrels from Heaven Hill and Four Roses that are as much as 13 years old. This wine, again, tops out the alcohol at 15.2 percent. It’s very ripe, with big raspberry and black pepper spice flavors, and sells for about $15. This wine has small amounts of syrah and petite sirah that add to the delicious complexity of the wine.

Cooper & Thief Cellarmaster’s Red Blend has become a big favorite of mine for the bourbon-aged blends. A kitchen sink California wine that is a blend of 38 percent merlot, 37 percent syrah, 11 percent zinfandel, 7 percent petite sirah and 4 percent cabernet sauvignon, it’s aged in bourbon barrels for three months.  Almost port-like in style, it’s 17 percent alcohol, a little higher in price at about $23 and has velvety tannins and a long, velvety finish. What the heck, give them a try, see what Kentucky brings to California.  PS

Robyn James is a certified sommelier and proprietor of The Wine Cellar and Tasting Room in Southern Pines. Contact her at robynajames@gmail.com.

Same Old Game

Just new stuff

By Clyde Edgerton

I’m in the bleachers watching baseball practice. My youngest son, 11, has just started playing — this is his second practice ever — and so far, he likes it. After the first practice, we shopped for equipment, and I hear some of you already thinking: Why does Papadaddy always gripe about high prices?

The answer is this: I didn’t buy anything between 1994 and 2012, until I finally started shopping for my children’s sporting equipment.

But on the softer side — the nostalgic side — this baseball business is taking me back, in good ways, to over 60 years ago. “Yep,” I say to my son, “I started playing baseball when I was 9 years old.”

“What?” he says, “They had baseball back then?”

When I was 10 or 12, our coach worked at a local funeral home and drove a hearse to practice. I can see the hearse as it pulled onto the field near first base — long, shiny, and black. This is all true. My friends and I would open the swinging rear door and pull out a canvas bag of bats, a handbag of baseballs, and a large duffle bag with the catcher’s equipment and bases and the little plastic things held together with stretch bands that we fitted over our ears when batting. These flimsy head protectors became the norm in the late ’50s, as I recall. (Protective head gear was a consequence of mid-century political correctness.)

While we were shopping a few weeks ago, my son and I inspected batting helmets, baseball gloves — for fielding and batting — bats, baseballs and a protective cup. The protective cup comes with a pair of fancy black underwear to hold the cup in place. The reason my son is expected to buy his own equipment these days is because if, say, a funeral home bought a bag of, say, 20 baseball bats, then the funeral home could be out four grand. Easily. Check it out at your local sporting goods store.

In addition:

My son’s bat: metal. Ours: wooden.

My son’s headgear: a hard plastic helmet. Ours: (early on) a cloth cap.

My son’s cleats: plastic or rubber. Ours: steel.

My son’s batting gloves: two. Ours: none.

My son’s “protection”: a plastic cup. Ours: underwear (most of us, I guess).

My son’s fielder’s glove: synthetic, stiff, and complicated. Ours: leather, limber, and plain.

My son’s infield surface: mostly grass. Ours: mostly dirt.

My son’s outfield surface: grass. Ours: mostly dirt.

My son’s pitching mound: raised. Ours: flat.

My son’s dugout: concrete behind a fence. Ours: a wooden bench, in the open — with splinters.

My son’s coach: loves the game. Ours: loved the game.

I’m so glad the game is the same. Three strikes, four balls, three outs. Secret signals and hidden ball tricks, balks, walks and home runs. Timing, speed and precision. It’s still best to step on the base with your inside foot, watch the third base coach as you approach second base, start with your glove on the ground to catch a grounder. And the playing field itself — it expands outward from home plate. Unlike football, basketball and other sports, boundaries exist on only two sides of a baseball field, not all four sides. Hit a home run and the ball could travel all the way around the Earth and roll up behind home plate and still be in fair territory.

After the second practice, we’re gathering up equipment to head home. My son says, “Dad, they make a backpack for gloves, helmet and all that. It has two sleeves for two bats. We could get one at Dick’s along with another bat.”

“If we get another bat, we’ll have to sell your bicycle, the trampoline and your bunk bed.”

“You mean . . . like a yard sale?”

“Sure. Good idea.”  PS

Clyde Edgerton is the author of 10 novels, a memoir and a new work, Papadaddy’s Book for New Fathers. He is the Thomas S. Kenan III Distinguished Professor of Creative Writing at UNCW.

The Forgotten Lunch

He may never remember it. But I won’t forget that smile

By Sara Phile

He did it again, yesterday.

He does it around 25 percent of the time. He strolls outside, armed with his book bag in one hand and his trumpet case in the other and hikes the .8 miles down the gravel road to the bus stop. Or, if he’s done fixing his hair by 6:55, his dad drives him the .8 miles to the bus stop. I’m typically taking a shower at this point, maybe working on my own hair when he calls. It’s usually five minutes after he leaves, sometimes 10.

“Mom, I forgot my lunch. Will you bring it to me?”

Only twice have I not taken it to him. Cruel, maybe, but I wanted him to learn the natural consequences of forgetting his lunch. He is, after all, one day shy of 13. It’s his job to remember.

The first time I said, “No, I can’t take you your lunch. I don’t have time.” He said OK and hung up, and all day I felt stings of guilt. I tried to will them away, but thought of him hungry, shriveling in a corner of the classroom, so hungry he couldn’t pay attention to fractions, integers, or even more dramatic, adverbs and prepositional phrases. (Gasp!) When I picked him up from school, he bebopped out to the car, looking his high-energy self. I was a little taken back.

“How was your day? I bet you’re hungry.”

“Oh, fine. I just ate lunch at school.”

“Oh, really.” (I had not put any money on his account in a while and was pretty sure he had a zero or negative balance.) “With what money?”

“I just charged it. No big deal. Every one charges lunch, Mom. Everyone.”

“Don’t charge your lunch again.”

The next time he called, while I was straight-ironing my hair and still had several sections to do, he said, “Mom, I left my lunch on the counter. Can you drive it to me?”

“Sorry, I don’t have time this morning. You are going to have to be more responsible. Do not charge your lunch.”

Again, all day I felt guilt. I told him not to charge his lunch, but what was he supposed to do? I willed away these guilt feelings when children who really are hungry came to mind. Neither of my boys has ever really missed a meal, not really. He would be fine, and he would learn.

When I picked him up, he was still alive. Very much alive, talking in the way he talks, that if it were written out, there would be no commas or periods. Just run-on sentence after run-on sentence punctuated with exclamation points, lots of them.

“How did you do?”

“Oh, fine. I just ate Ethan’s lunch.”

“Wait, what? David!”

“He shared, and then basically let me eat it all. Mom, it’s OK. He shares his lunch with me a lot.”

Great. Now I have to reimburse lunches to Ethan’s mom.

“Quit stealing other kids’ lunches!”

He continues to forget his lunch, maybe once every two weeks. Back to yesterday. He spent 17 minutes on his hair, and his lunch was simply an afterthought. He called around 12 minutes after he left the house. I grumbled that he was going to make me late for work. That this was the last time ever in the history of moms I was going to interrupt my getting-ready-for-work routine and drive down the hill just to take him his lunch. I stopped at the bottom of the hill and there he was, book bag and trumpet case on the grass and phone in hand, thumbs flying over the keys. He didn’t even look up. I rolled down the window and the thought to throw his lunch out and drive off passed through my mind. He looked up and a smile passed over his lips, the one that shifted to his eyes.

“Thanks, Mom. I love you.”

I obviously don’t know the solution; I’m not asking for advice here. All I know is, those words, coming from him, melted all my madness away. Just like that. It didn’t matter if he meant them or if he was just trying to soften the mood. I drove back up the hill thinking that taking him his lunch may not be so bad and maybe I should just start planning for it.

Until the next time . . .  PS

Sara Phile teaches English composition at Sandhills Community College.

November Books

By Brian Lampkin and Shannon Jones

We can tell that the food truck phenomenon has reached its zenith, because now you can buy prepackaged, microwave-ready “food truck” food — sometimes in boxes shaped like food trucks! Still, we love the very idea of food trucks, and Vivian Howard, the owner of the acclaimed Chef & Farmer restaurant in Kinston, North Carolina, has us thinking about food. And trucks. Is there a literary intersection? Can we find it? Without GPS?

Deep Run Roots: Stories and Recipes from My Corner of the South, by Vivian Howard. Howard has embarked on a grand tour with her food truck, serving meals along with the wisdom (and more than 200 recipes from eastern North Carolina) she’s gained from her years in the restaurant business. “Part story, part history, part recipes, I’d like to think Deep Run Roots is much more than a cookbook,” Howard says.

Food Trucks!: A Lift-the-Flap Meal on Wheels!, by Jeffrey Burton. For a kid, there is nothing cooler than hitting a food truck with Mom and Dad, then plopping down right there on the curb to devour an overstuffed taco. Now foodies can go behind the scenes of their favorite food trucks with a fun board book: Lift the flaps to see what makes the food in different trucks so yummy, from fryers to griddles, from snow cone dispensers to ice cream freezers. Like its counterparts in real life, this book is a crowd-pleaser.

The World’s Best Street Food, by Lonely Planet, Mark Bittman, James Oseland and Austin Bush. Perfect for a small kitchen shelf, these recipes from street carts the world over are well-organized and easy to follow, authentic but with substitutions given for harder-to-find ingredients so that you can get started exploring the world’s best street food right in your own kitchen. This is a great gift for adventurers who delight in trying new world cuisines. 

Duel: Terror Stories, by Richard Matheson. What is the most frightening 18-wheeler in literary history? Undoubtedly, the truck in Matheson’s short story “Duel.” This collection includes several stories adapted into great “Twilight Zone” episodes.

Truck: A Love Story, by Michael Perry. The New York Times calls it “a funny and touching account” of a love life ruined by Neil Diamond. And the Chicago Tribune, in an over-the-top food metaphor, says, “Perry takes each moment, peeling it, seasoning it with rich language, and then serving it to us piping hot and fresh.”

And Every Morning the Way Home Gets Longer and Longer: A Novella, by Fredrik Backman. The author of A Man Called Ove offers an exquisitely moving portrait of an elderly man’s struggle to hold on to his most precious memories.

J. D. Salinger: The Last Interview: And Other Conversations, edited and introduction by David Streitfeld. Melville House Publishing does a great service with their Last Interview series, and a famous recluse like Salinger is particularly interesting.

Twenty-Six Seconds: A Personal History of the Zapruder Film, by Alexandra Zapruder.  The moving, untold family story behind Abraham Zapruder’s film footage of the Kennedy assassination and its lasting impact on our world.

I’ll Take You There, by Wally Lamb. Lamb’s new novel is a radiant homage to the resiliency, strength and the power of women.

Prince Lestat and the Realms of Atlantis: The Vampire Chronicles (Vampire Chronicles #12), by Anne Rice. Is it possible? Another? Yep.  PS

TV Dinner

Turkey vultures are the ultimate scavengers

By Susan Campbell

There! By the edge of the road: It’s a big, dark bird. It looks sort of like it a wild turkey. But is it? Its head and face are red. It has a pale, hooked bill and a feathery neck. But the tail is the tip-off — it’s short. Definitely not the right look for a turkey — but perfect for a turkey vulture! (Feel free to call it a buzzard — or a “TV” by those in the know.)

The confusion is understandable since wild turkeys have made quite a comeback in Piedmont North Carolina. In fact, turkey vultures and turkeys can occasionally be seen sitting near one another in farm fields where they both can find food or just take advantage of the warmth of the dark ground on cool mornings.

However, turkey vultures are far more likely to be seen soaring overhead or perhaps perched high in a dead tree or cell tower. These birds have an unmistakable appearance in the air, forming a deep V-shape as they soar through the air, sometimes for literally hours on end. They’re easy to spot with their very large wingspans. At the very end of their wings look for their distinctive finger-like primary feathers. The tail serves as a rudder, allowing the bird to navigate effortlessly as it is lifted and transported by thermals and other currents high above the ground.

It is from this lofty vantage that turkey vultures travel in search of their next meal. Although their vision is poor, their sense of smell is keen. They can detect the aroma of a dead animal a mile or more away. They soar in circles, moving across the landscape with wings outstretched, sniffing all the while until a familiar odor catches their attention.

Turkey vultures are most likely to feed on dead mammals but they will not hesitate to eat the remains of a variety of foods including other birds, reptiles and even fish. They prefer freshly dead foods but may have to wait to get through the thick hide of larger animals if there is no wound or soft tissue allowing access. Toothed scavengers such as coyotes may literally need to provide that opportunity. Once vultures can get to flesh, they are quick to devour their food. Without plumage on their heads, there are no feathers to become soiled as they reach into larger carcasses for the morsels deep inside.

Our summering turkey vultures perform elaborate courtship flights in early spring.  One will lead the other through a series of twists, turns and flaps as they pair up. As unattractive as vultures seem to us, they are good parents. Nests are well-hidden in hollow stumps or piles of debris, in old hawk or heron nests or even abandoned buildings. They seek out cooler spots that are well away from human activity in order to protect their blind, naked and defenseless young.

Vulture populations are increasing across North Carolina — probably due to human activity. Roadways create feeding opportunities year-round. Landfills also present easy feeding opportunities as well, believe it or not. During the winter months turkey vultures from the north migrate south, often concentrating in one area. Their large roosts can be problematic. A hundred or more large birds pouring into a stand of mature pines or loitering on a water tower does not go unnoticed.

But most people take turkey vultures for granted or don’t even notice them. In reality, they are unparalleled scavengers — especially given the increase in roadways and the inevitable roadkill that has resulted. PS

Susan would love to receive your wildlife sightings and photographs at susan@ncaves.com.

Poem

BIRD FEEDER

I never said

we weren’t sunk in glittering nature,

until we are able to become something else.

— Mary Oliver

Perches pique a matter of strategic

challenges, this chess game of

poached positions and rotating

flurries of chromatic energy,

as if the flash and dash of feathers

in flight was more about the dance

and not the flush of necessity’s plight . . .

as if we ourselves were not also

in restless rush, breathing out

the flux and plottings of our small

and uncertain profundities.

— Connie Ralston

Scrapbooks

Not long after summer slipped into autumn, we at PineStraw were deeply saddened to learn of the passing of dear friend Cos Barnes, a gifted writer and beloved godmother of this magazine and the Sandhills at large. Cos graced our pages with wit and maternal wisdom for more than a decade and will be greatly missed by us all. In tribute, we present one of our favorite Cos Barnes columns. — The Staff

By Cos Barnes

In preparation for the first move in 30 years, I find it traumatic to destroy the scrapbooks and photo albums that depicted my children’s activities during their growing-up years. Even more traumatic is remembering the people who taught me to be a Tar Heel and love the dear town of Southern Pines. I look at snapshots of us when we were younger, slimmer and cuter, and breathe a prayer for those who helped me along the way.

When I moved here, only a limping civic music association graced our community, and its days were done. We started a new arts council with offices in Storey’s Department Store in the Town and Country Shopping Center. Possibly only Edna Earle Cole remembers Storey’s. Peter McBeth taught me the importance of organized arts activities. You all helped, too.

I remember my good friend Bill Samuels, who died recently. He not only lent his financial wisdom to our decisions in the Community Foundation, but he was always there to address invitations. Lynn Thompson showed me the intricacies of the library’s influence, but also taught me the scope of its programs. She always willingly lent me a quiet room to conduct interviews. When I joined the Arc’s board at the urging of a friend, I did not speak for the first year. They talked in initials which I knew not. However, in no time, I was president. I learned the language quickly from Wendy Russell.

Following my husband’s death, I was asked to fill out his term as a trustee at my church. I would not take anything for the business tactics I learned from those men. When I substituted at Pinecrest High, my most difficult task was Bachelor’s Home Economics. Although we did not make a gathered skirt, we learned to work together, and I learned to appreciate my students and their backgrounds.

I spent many years as a board member of Weymouth with my assignment working with the writers in residence. I took them everywhere to explain and entertain — retirement homes, the college, high schools and elementary schools.

That fiery head of the backpack program, that volunteer of all volunteers, Linda Hubbard, made me know I had to pick up and deliver backpacks. And one of the most pleasurable tasks I have had is taking up tickets at the Sunrise. I have seen Jesse, the manager, take the popcorn and drinks to an older couple who required assistance, and serve them at their seats. And as I roamed through files in my filing cabinet, I came across a reminder from Charlotte Gantz informing me of plant sources in our area. It was dated Fall, 1996.

Keepsakes, no matter how small, all have a story. A polished rock given to me by Betsy Hyde at my first book signing has been on my desk since 1995. My one big question now is what do I do with the framed graduation certificates which have never been hung. I even have my mother’s from National Business College in Roanoke, Va., in 1925. It measures 18 x 21. What do I do with it?

And how do I reward all my colleagues for their kindness? I hope a simple thank you will do.  PS

PinePitch

Conductors of Magic

The Sandhills Central Model Railroad club presents its annual Train Show on Saturday, Nov. 19, from 10 a.m. – 4 p.m. Founded in 1979, the Club is located in the Aberdeen Train Depot, where an HO model railroad features a beautifully constructed re-creation of the town of Aberdeen and surrounding areas. The layout depicts portions of Main, South, and Poplar Streets, U.S. 1 and Hwy. 5, and billboards modeled in detail. Admission: $5; free for children. The Historic Aberdeen Train Depot and Museum, 100 E. Main St., Aberdeen. Info: (910) 944-1115 or explorepinehurst.com.

Fare-Thee-Well

On Thanksgiving Day, 1976, Canadian-American rock group The Band performed a farewell concert that featured more than a dozen special guests, including Bob Dylan, Neil Young, Emmylou Harris, Ringo Starr, Joni Mitchell, Van Morrison, Neil Diamond and Eric Clapton. The performance, which was filmed by Martin Scorsese for a documentary called The Last Waltz, will show for free at the Sunrise Theater this Thanksgiving night (Thursday, Nov. 24), at 7:30 p.m. Rolling Stone magazine called it the “Greatest Concert Movie of All Time.” Sunrise Theater, 250 NW Broad St., Southern Pines. Info: (910) 692-8501 or sunrisetheater.com.

Destination: Music

Best thing about a Rooster’s Wife show at Poplar Knight Spot? There isn’t a bad seat in the house. You’ll just want to make sure you snag one. Here’s what’s hot at the Spot this month:

Nov. 4 – Martin Grosswendt and Susanne Salem-Schatz deliver country blues with bottleneck and finger-busting guitar, powerful vocals, soul and wry humor.  Tickets: $10. You can also catch them on Thursday, Nov. 3, 8 p.m., at the Cameo Arthouse Theater, 225 Hay Street, Fayetteville. Tickets: $12.

Nov. 6 – Southern Pines native Sam Lewis comes home from Nashville with a full band and a new record to share his folksy roots and soulful persona with friends new and old. Tickets: $15.

Nov. 11 – Cicada Rhythm. Chilling harmonies and unbridled enthusiasm redefine so-called folk music. Tickets: $10.

Nov. 13 – Joe Walsh delivers his newest project, “Borderland,” for this CD release celebration. The Matt Flinner Trio splits the show. Talk about modern mandolin mayhem — and all things stringed. Tickets: $15.

Nov. 20 – Jordan Tice is a singular voice on the American roots music scene. Stray Local opens. Tickets: $15.

Doors open at 6 p.m. All shows start at 6:46 p.m. The Rooster’s Wife, 114 Knight St., Aberdeen. Info: (910) 944-7502 or www.theroosterswife.org.

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Art that Pops

New work by collage and assemblage artist Louis St. Lewis will be on display at Broadhurst Gallery on Sunday, Nov. 6, at 5 p.m. Hailed as a “cunning pirate of art history,” St. Lewis is a bold and witty artist and designer whose brilliant manipulations of appropriated art grace the collections of French fashion designer Christian LaCroix, former Vogue editor André Leon Talley, The Prince of Kuwait, and Oprah Winfrey. Born in nearby Albemarle, he now divides his time between Raleigh, Paris and New Orleans. Don’t miss his “Collecting Art” talk, during which he just might explain what he means when he says artists are “social court jesters.” Broadhurst Gallery, 2212 Midland Road, Pinehurst. Info: (910) 295-4817 or www.broadhurstgallery.com.

If These Trees Could Talk

On Saturday, Nov. 5, learn about our region’s first and biggest industry — naval stores — during this fascinating excursion back in time. “Tar, Pitch and Turpentine” will be presented hourly from 10 a.m. until 4 p.m. by filmmaker, historian and writer Bryan Avery. Watch Avery extract resin from a tree, light fires to distill turpentine from gum, and more. Bring a blanket or chair for the outdoor demos, and since they’re open, don’t miss the chance to tour the property’s two house-museums. Free admission. Bryant House and McLendon Cabin, 3361 Mount Carmel Road, Carthage. Info: (910) 692-2051 or explorepinehurst.com.

Enchanted Forest

The 20th annual Sandhills Children’s Center Festival of Trees will take place from Wednesday, Nov. 16, through Sunday, Nov. 20, 10 a.m. – 8 p.m. Over 200 decorated trees, wreaths, gift baskets and gingerbread houses will be featured in a winter wonderland complete with live entertainment, silent auction and a Festival Marketplace. Three words: lights, children, magic. Admission by any monetary donation at the door. Proceeds benefit Sandhills Children’s Center. Carolina Hotel, 80 Carolina Vista Drive, Pinehurst. Info: (910) 692-3323 or sandhillschildrenscenter.org/trees.

Made With Love 

The Annual Seagrove Pottery Festival, to be held Saturday, Nov. 19, and Sunday, Nov. 20, from 9 a.m.–5 p.m., celebrates the craft heritage of Seagrove, the Randolph County gem that is home to the largest concentration of working potters in the United States. In addition to pottery — both functional and sculptural— the festival features food vendors and live music, educational activities for children and adults, and demos by blacksmiths, basket makers, woodcarvers, weavers, and potters. Admission: $5. Seagrove Elementary School, 528 Old Plank Road, Seagrove. Info: (336) 873-7887 or discoverseagrove.com.

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Boot Stomping Music

The Hackensaw Boys inject traditional Appalachian and Delta music with a heavy dose of contemporary, good-times-roll kind of spit and vinegar. If the sound of that makes you feel like putting on your dancing boots, mark your calendar for Friday, Nov. 18, 7:30 p.m. Known for their spirited and rowdy live shows, the Hackensaw Boys will perform old favorites and tunes from their latest album at the Sunrise Theater. Produced by Larry Campbell — the multi-instrumentalist wizard who has lent his talents to the likes of Bob Dylan and Levon Helm — “Charismo” has a casual, porch-front aesthetic that’s sharpened around the edges, focusing on the simple beauty of Hackensaw’s melodies and the earnestness in their delivery. Tickets: $20 (general admission); $30 (VIP). Sunrise Theater, 250 NW Broad St., Southern Pines. Info: (910) 692-8501 or sunrisetheater.com.

Walk in the Woods

You’ve heard of Eat, Pray, Love? Why not Hike, Pray, Eat? On Thanksgiving Day, meet at the Weymouth Woods Visitor Center for a 10 a.m. discovery hike sure to help you work up an appetite for the afternoon feast. Weymouth Woods Sandhills Nature Preserve is an enchanted window to the longleaf pine forests that once covered millions of acres in the southeastern U.S. The lanky pines – some of them hundreds of years old – tower over expanses of wiregrass and rare and intriguing species, including the red-cockaded woodpecker, pine barrens tree frog, bog spicebush, and fox squirrel. Who knows what else you’ll discover? Wear comfortable shoes and bring bottled water for this ranger-led two-mile hike. Weymouth Woods-Sandhills Nature Preserve, 1024 Fort Bragg Road, Southern Pines. Info: (910) 692-2167 or www.ncparks.gov/weymouth-woods-sandhills-nature-preserve.

Old Fashioned Nights

And the perfect rye whiskey to take off the winter chill

By Tony Cross

Whenever Mother Nature makes up her mind, and decides that she’s going to throw colder weather our way, I always seem to forget how much I love pairing a good whiskey with the chill. There’s something about the burn going down my chest after escaping a cold and rainy night. I’m not reminiscing about the hellfire from a sour mash that I would shoot when I was barely old enough to partake. That had its time and place years ago. Nowadays, especially in good company, I opt for a good rye. One of my favorites over the past few years has been from Utah’s High West Distillery.

Jack Daniel’s was the first whiskey I ever tasted. I hated it. I’m still not fond of the spirit, and I’ll probably get a lot of flak for being honest, but I’d be fine with never ordering it again. On the other hand, I probably wouldn’t turn down a Jack & Coke if one was sent my way. It wasn’t until bourbon began making its presence on the market felt that I began experimenting, and understanding our native hooch. And then I tried rye, and it was all over. The element of spice in a rye whiskey had my taste buds intrigued from day one. Not only that, but I began to notice that rye added much more depth in the whiskey cocktails that I was playing around with. Any chance I got to purchase a new rye (as in new to our local ABC store), I would scoop it up immediately.

High West was recommended to me by a patron one night. He had just returned from a work conference in Park City, Utah, where he encountered the world’s only ski-in gastro-distillery and couldn’t contain his excitement when explaining the myriad food and drink choices on the menu. In addition to serving cocktails with their signature whiskies, High West has an extensive spirits list with everything from Green Chartreuse to, well, Jack Daniel’s. The way he explained the different nuances with High West’s whiskies sounded like an adolescent with every sense aroused. All I knew was that I sure as hell had to get my hands on some.

From my first bottle of their Double Rye! (a blend of two-year and 16-year rye whiskies) to one of their limited releases, Yippee Ki-Yay, a blend of two ryes that are aged in Vya sweet vermouth and Qupé Syrah oak barrels (I yelled it out like Bruce Willis after my first sip. Yeah, that good), proprietor and distiller, David Perkins has yet to disappoint. The mainstay on my shelf is the Rendezvous Rye, a complex rye blend that marries a spicy 6-year-old rye with a more mature 16-year rye that adds a touch of vanilla and caramel. It’s the whiskey you pour with those who will appreciate it. Perfect with a cube of ice, but fantastic in an old-fashioned (recipe below).

In the past few years that I’ve gotten acclimated with rye, more and more distilleries are becoming readily available throughout our state. The increase in sales of whiskey has gone through the roof over the past decade. Just last year alone, whiskey sales grew 7.8 percent. Americans aren’t the only ones with a thirst for our national spirit: Export sales have grown from $743 million in 2005 to $1.56 billion last year. That’s crazy. Even crazier, according to Fortune magazine, with all of the growth of beer distilleries in the U.S., “distilled spirit suppliers and marketers marked the sixth straight year of increasing their market share relative to beer.”

So, it was no surprise to me when I read that High West Distillery has just been purchased by Constellation Brands Inc., owners of Corona beer, Svedka Vodka, and Casa Noble tequila, who also recently purchased Prisoner Wine Co. and Ballast Point Brewing & Spirits. “Uh-oh,” I thought. However, the Wall Street Journal online explained that the 200 employees at the distillery will continue working there, including Mr. Perkins. “The same people will be making and selling it,” the article assured me.

Not log ago, I discovered a bottle of the Double Rye! on the shelf of our local ABC outlet. It’s good to see that our town is adding more premium spirits to their inventory. I have a lot of friends who are bourbon fans, some connoisseurs. If that’s you, I’ll say this: purchase a bottle of rye, take it home, and try it with an ice cube or two; it’ll open up the whiskey like a decanter does for wine. If you’re still not swayed, make an old-fashioned. You’ll blush and cuss.

Old-Fashioned

1 cube demerara sugar

Pinch of brown sugar

3 dashes Angostura bitters

2 dashes orange bitters

2 ounces High West Rendezvous Rye

Lemon and/or orange peel

This cocktail can be built in the glass you (or your guest) will be drinking from, or you can mix it in a cocktail shaker, and strain it into the glass. Either way, make sure the glass is a thick-bottomed 8-10 ounce old-fashioned glass. Also, spend a few extra bucks, and buy small and large ice cube molds. Last time I checked, Southern Whey on Broadstreet had those available. There’s no point in making a cocktail with a $60 whiskey, if it’s going to get watered down immediately with your crappy ice. Place both sugars at the bottom of your mixing vessel. Dash both bitters over the sugar, and muddle it into a paste. Add the whiskey, stir with a mixing spoon for a few seconds, and then add four small ice cubes, and stir for 50 revolutions. If you’re building this cocktail in your glass, carefully add the larger cube, and stir. If you’re using the smaller cubes, strain over the large cube in the rocks glass. I love using a lemon and orange peel for this classic. Express the oils of both peels over the drink before adding them in. Santé!  PS

Tony Cross is a bartender who runs cocktail catering company Reverie Cocktails in Southern pines. He can also recommend a vitamin supplement for the morning after at Nature’s Own.

Confessions of a Nostalgic Nose

You can talk to the hand. However, the nose remembers all

By Deborah Salomon

The most underrated sense, I believe, is smell.

Remember Al Pacino as a blind veteran dancing the tango in Scent of a Woman, rated among the best all-time film sequences? Unable to witness her beauty, he inhaled.

This opinion results from losing olfactory competence 20 years ago, after a bad cold. It happens, my otorhinolaryngologist said. Don’t argue with a 21-letter specialty. I can’t smell a pot burning on the stove. A bit gets through if I put an orange right under my nose. Fresh paint doesn’t bother me, nor would sitting behind a high school boys’ basketball bench. But I do miss meat loaf, split pea soup and . . . let’s see what else my nose recalls.

Cider mills: Apples permeate October in New England. Nowhere is the aroma stronger than at a cider mill, where whole apples are crushed into a spicy-sweet nectar. You (and the yellow jackets) can smell it half a mile away.

A maple sugarhouse: Early spring nights in Vermont mean boiling freshly collected sap until the water evaporates, leaving pure maple syrup. Forty gallons of sap boil down to a gallon of syrup. Farmers boil all night in sugarhouses — rough cabins that glow against the receding snow. The maple smell is so strong, so delicious you can practically pour it on pancakes.

Lily of the valley: When I was a child, Coty’s Muguet de Bois was a popular fragrance. My mother had a cardboard cylinder of body powder; I would put it near my nose and feel soothed, happy. The powder is still available online, as a vintage product, like Tangee lipstick. Wouldn’t do me any good now.

What happened to new-car smell? I see sprays that provide what new cars have lacked for decades. My last fragrant auto was a spiffy ’72 Olds Cutlass convertible with white leather upholstery. Subsequent Subarus and Toyotas arrived fragrance-free.

Garlic: Here’s the story. My mother-in-law despised garlic. The very word made her shudder. She was an excellent cook without it. Then I took over the big family meals, aware of but not bound by her prohibitions. I remember a holiday back in the day when a standing rib roast didn’t cost more than a root canal. Mom walked into the house, exclaiming, “What smells so good?” followed by “Everybody says your roast beef is better than mine,” from inserting garlic slivers deep into the meat, then rubbing the outside with a cut clove. I never confessed.

A newsstand, preferably on a Manhattan corner, near the subway entrance: Stacks of fat Sunday editions, abetted by comic books, Fleers Dubble Bubble gum and cigars, emitted a smell I can feel, but not describe.

As a teenager I drove often from Asheville to Durham. Approaching Valdese, the smell of bread from the Waldensian bakeries dominated the air. I can close my eyes and smell it now.

Not all odors are good or even acceptable . . . like the time a mouse crawled behind the wall of built-in-bookcases, and died. I never knew how he got in but I know how he got out and how much I paid the carpenter.

But some scents are sublime: the fuzzy head of a freshly bathed baby. Great coffee percolating (drip and single-serve appliances not the same). Rain, on a summer afternoon. A wood fire. Steak searing on a hot charcoal (not gas) grill. And the one that breaks my heart: my daughter Wendy, running through the airport arrivals concourse, arms outstretched for a hug, whispering in my ear, “Mmmm, you smell like mommy.”

The holidays loom, announced by roasting turkey with cornbread-sage stuffing, followed by balsam and spruce boughs. In my kitchen, where deep-frying never happens, the heavy, sticky smell of Hanukkah potato pancakes sizzling in oil soaks into clothes, hair, upholstery and everything else.

Look, a working nose isn’t vital, unless you’re a bloodhound, but smell does enhance other senses while imprinting the brain and stimulating memory. I am absolutely sure that this very minute you are making a mental list.

So sure I can almost smell it. PS

Deborah Salomon is a staff writer for PineStraw and The Pilot. She may be reached at debsalomon@nc.rr.com.