Hold the Aioli

And don’t even talk to me about sweet potatoes

By Susan Kelly

My first fast food was pineapple rings served straight from the squatty green Del Monte can alongside Chef Boyardee little pizzas warmed in the toaster oven. This was fast food because my mother was having a dinner party and she needed to feed us fast. I loved that combo of metallic sweet and salty acidic crunch. Today those flavors would have some fancy pants term like “sweet and savory.” My foodie sister-in-law in Raleigh would understand. I don’t even understand her tweets.

Catawba rabbit w vibrant pureed cararots, bl trumpets with earthy cihianti….,,,

Long Johnw blubry+ricotta fr@monutsDonuts is my style; NC sweet potato+horchata are destined for my boys’ bfast

Jennifer, the sister-in-law, is one of those people who just know culinary minutiae: that adding crabmeat to an otherwise ordinary potato soup will be delicious, or that arugula marries well with watermelon. I have never been part of that cognoscenti. I can, however, use words like cognoscenti with confidence. I can also coin cooking words. Nart, for example. Nart is a verb that describes using a food processor, whose etymology stems from the proper noun Cuisinart. Correct usage looks like this: “I narted the rotten bananas for banana bread.”

My family as a whole expends a lot of time and effort — and opinions — on food. When we’re all at the beach together, my sisters take pictures of their lunches. Truly. It’s a competition of plate tastes and appearance. Some three-bean salad at 4 o’clock, crackers with pimento cheese at 5. A half chicken salad sammie, several bread and butter pickles, a wee dab of leftover tomato pie from the night before, ditto the cold shrimp with a light coating of cocktail sauce, some of those suspiciously slick pre-cut knuckle-sized carrots with hummus. “I am so bummed,” one sister will say, studying the other’s plate, because she forgot there was some roasted okra hidden in the far corner of the fridge. When I get home from the beach, the Fig Newtons in the cupboard have gone hard as bullets. I am so bummed.

At 9, my youngest sister said, “When I grow up, I’m going to make enough money to buy nice things.” Like what? I asked, expecting cars, clothes, jewels. “Heinz ketchup instead of Hunt’s,” she said. Talk about your worthy aspirations! While other budding scientists were building weather stations, my nephew’s eighth-grade science project was titled “What Method Works Best?” It featured various old chestnuts about how to chop onions without weeping: holding the onion under water while cutting (I ask you, who manages that feat?), and holding a wad of white bread in your mouth. The winner was simply to don swim goggles, always a fashionable kitchen look. My question is this: Why not just nart the dang onions?

As an adviser for the roundly dreaded college application essay, I was finally rewarded with the perfect prompt one year: What is your favorite comfort food and why? At last, something my students and I could metaphorically sink our teeth into. Why labor over Uncle Jimmy as my Most Respected Person or an Eagle Scout project as my Proudest Achievement when you could write about all the varieties of comfort food? The road trip comfort food of Nabs and a Coke; the getting over the 24-hour throw-ups comfort food of scrambled eggs and grits; the tailgate comfort food of fried chicken; the Christmas morning comfort food of Moravian Sugar Cake; the late night comfort food of cold pizza; the — wait. My pupil has fled. Was it the mention of the throw-ups? Or maybe he divined that leadership qualities can’t really be addressed by writing about barbecue. Well, it’s been said before: College is wasted on the young.

I suppose food can only be written about with authority by famous television cooks. Those celebrity chefs, however, are a fraud, and real cooks know it. Real cooks cuss when the gnocchi clots into one big soggy dumpling. Real cooks shuck, silk and shave a dozen ears of Silver Queen for stewed corn to take to a sick friend and cry when they realize the milk they added had gone bad, just as they realize that they accidentally used a candy thermometer instead of a meat thermometer and it melted inside the pork roast. Real cooks have kitchen shelves that look like mine, where the cookbooks are lined up like an exhibit on domestication, representatives of each era of my marriage and culinary efforts.

Here are the homely (dowdy, matronly) spiral-bound paperback Junior League volumes, the recipes featuring cream of mushroom soup and Velveeta, and titled “Ladies Day Out Stew,” laughable and tender. Then comes the new wave, the Silver Palates, with charming pen-and-ink drawings, when arugula and aioli were a different language altogether. All those good intentions — Try this! I’ve innocently written in the margins — still captive, still somehow alive, in those cookbooks.

But never mind the effort and fuss, here to save us is Martha Stewart’s Quick Cook, proving you can be gourmet and effortless too. Beside Martha are the cookbooks dedicated to a single topic: Pasta Perfect, Soups, Grilling, Desserts. Now, it seems, we’ve returned to the Junior League: fancier hardback versions with enticing, lush color photographs of Kentucky Derby Pickup Supper or Oscar Night Buffet. Still the party menus. Still the names of contributors. And still my hopeful handwritten intentions: Try this!  PS

In a former life, Susan Kelly published five novels, won some awards, did some teaching, and made a lot of speeches. These days, she’s freelancing and making up for all that time she spent indoors writing novels.

Whistling Wings

Return of the Hyde County duck hunt

By Tom Bryant

I was up in the roost, a little apartment above our garage where I go to write and hang out when I need to get out of the way of the vacuum cleaner and my bride, Linda. I was sorting through duck hunting gear from my last trip to Lake Mattamuskeet. Shotguns, waders, heavy waterproof hunting coats, shotgun shells, duck calls, hunting trousers — you name it and if it pertains to duck hunting, it was in a pile in the roost. 

Duck season ushered in a new kind of hunting for me in 2016 and January of the new year. In the past, I was used to running my own show so to speak. A group of us, six to be exact, leased impoundments right on the Pamlico Sound. Also included in the lease was a small house that served as our lodge. For a few years, the arrangement worked OK; but then a series of bad weather events flooded the impoundments with salt water, making them useless for growing corn, and the ducks went elsewhere. At the same time, our little lodge was invaded with a legion of mice, making the place uninhabitable, so we gave up our efforts, and I didn’t duck hunt in that area for a while.

I missed the wilds of Hyde County, though, so last summer, when my good friend Art called me after a visit to Engelhard, scouting for a new duck hunting venue, I was excited. “Hey, Tom, this is Art.  How you doing, sport?”

“Great, Art! Good to hear from you, old friend. What are you up to?”

“Jack, John and I have been scouting around Hyde County, looking for a spot for us to hang our duck-hunting hats, and we think we’ve found it. You interested?”

Needless to say I was, and they added me to the group. The hunt would be handled sort of the way I was introduced to the area. We would use a guide and his impoundments located right on the northern end of the lake. The guide would take care of all the details, which I wasn’t used to; but hey, I thought, I’m not getting any younger, and maybe an easy hunt like this would be nice.

The weeks rolled by and all of a sudden, it was time to round up all my duck-hunting stuff, load up the Cruiser and head east. The ride to Hyde County from Southern Pines was a trip of extremes, up through Raleigh and all the breakneck traffic trying to get nowhere fast, and then with a sigh of relief, I eased across the Pungo River onto the “Road Less Traveled,” which is the motto of Hyde County.

When I crossed the river, I pulled into a little gravel parking area right on the other side of the bridge and walked back to see if anything had changed since my last visit. An osprey was fishing, diving into the water with a splash, and with a fish in his claws, headed back across the tree line bordering the river to eat lunch. Then I heard them before I could see them. So high above were hundreds of snow geese, only little spots against the washed-out blue of the winter sky, their soft plaintive calls an indication of the altitude at which they were flying.

Excited, I fired up the Cruiser and motored toward Engelhard and the pair of cabins that would serve as our headquarters for the next four days. Art, John, Jack and Art’s son, Michael, were an hour or more behind me, so I got to the cabins first, unloaded some gear and waited for their arrival and the beginning of good times.

I had just sat down in a swing on the porch overlooking the Pamlico Sound when the troops pulled in the drive. In no time, all their gear was unloaded and John, the gourmet chef of the group, had staked out which cabin and kitchen he would use for his culinary efforts. I have been hunting with John for years and have been fortunate to experience many meals prepared by this excellent cook. We all looked forward to his expertise in the kitchen, always a high point of the hunt.

After completing the details of unloading and who was to use which cabin, Art called the guide to get our marching orders for the next day and also see if we could check out the evening flight into the impoundments. The guide said he would meet us at his barn and take us to the dike to watch, so we took care of some last minute details and everyone loaded into Michael’s big Suburban for the 15-minute ride to our morning rendezvous, hopefully, with ducks. The gray evening was heavily overcast with low clouds spitting rain, and although we couldn’t see the ducks, we sure could hear them. Our guide said, “If the weather holds, we should wear ’em out at sunrise.” We drove back to the cabins full of anticipation.

Five a.m. came early after an evening of good fellowship and John’s great cooking, but it didn’t take long to trudge to the Suburban, heavily loaded with guns and gear. On the way to the impoundments, Michael was commiserating about his lack of experience duck hunting. This was his first time in a blind. Michael has a very responsible position with Wells Fargo Bank and spends a lot of time on the job. The rest of the guys told him that duck hunting was a snap and he should be really good at it. Jokingly they said, “Just watch Bryant and try to do the opposite.”

We met the guide and trooped to the blind in good order. The weather was still blowing out of the northeast with a heavy mist. We hunkered down under cover and waited for legal shooting time. Whistling wings could be heard overhead as ducks started coming off the roost heading to the lake. You could almost taste the excitement. The guide whispered, “OK, it’s time, get ready.”

A pair of widgeons swung by out front, and one fell to our guns. Another pair, wood ducks this time, came from the right and flew straight out. Michael’s gun roared and both ducks fell. Two ducks, one shot. Even the guide celebrated and gave Michael a high-five. “See,” I said and laughed. “This duck hunting isn’t that hard.”

The morning went by in a blur as ducks came to the blind; but to me, the most incredible sight were the tundra swans coming off the lake, literally by the thousands. They were flying treetop high over the blind, and the sounds they made calling in those impossible numbers I’ll probably never hear again in my lifetime. It was one of nature’s most incredible sights, and I surely won’t forget it.

I looked out the window of the roost and watched as a pair of cardinals flew to the bird feeder. Well, I thought, here it is February, and there’s duck hunting stuff everywhere. Time to put it all away until next season and see if I can put together some fishing gear. We’re leaving for Florida and Chokoloskee Island soon, and the folks down there say the fishing is great.  PS

Tom Bryant, a Southern Pines resident, is a lifelong outdoorsman and PineStraw’s Sporting Life columnist.

Costco, Mon Amour

My romantic rendezvous with a retail giant

By Deborah Salomon

Costco has been in the news a lot this year — mostly for successful retail strategy, not as a mind-body experience. And certainly not as an object described in French, the language of love.

But I love Costco, perhaps because it represents a prevailing spirit — which sounds more elegant as l’air du temps.

Not that I’m showing off. After two years of high school and three semesters of college French, then living in a predominantly French-speaking city for a quarter century, a few phrases stuck, or else I would have gotten lost, or starved.

I joined Costco in 1994; annual membership fee has risen only five dollars in 23 years. Back then, families made it a Saturday afternoon eating outing: an elongated premium beef hot dog and refillable drink cost just over a dollar (now $1.50) in the food court, always packed. Pizza slices . . . humongous. Raspberry frosties to die for on a hot day. But that wasn’t the main attraction. Costco had a happy ambience created, I’ll wager, by a corporate psychologist who trains employees to move quickly, talk loud, smile and exude good will.

Sullen slowpokes need not apply.

This results in a feeling of “relax, hon, all’s right with the world,” since within the walls of an edifice the size of an airplane hangar ordinary folks are able to fill huge carts with fabulous stuff in multi-packs. If they can afford it, so can you.

I find myself looking for things to buy. Simply being there makes me want to run out and invite the neighborhood to dinner.

I noticed something else: Men. Most fellas aren’t into shopping for groceries, clothing, hardcover books, paper products. Cherchez les femmes is the preferred marketing strategy. But guys, once yanked past the giant TVs and blast-furnace barbecues, seem content strutting around the store, eyeballing ribeyes, flexing their muscles when a case of canned peaches or a 25-pound bag of flour needs hoisting. Another mind-bender: The meat, fish, deli and bakery items are truly magnifique in quality and presentation. “Buy me,” they shout. And so many frozen foods available nowhere else. And jumbo berries, basketball-sized melons, pies bigger than hubcaps. This suggests whatever shoppers take home will be in some way, exceptional.

C’est vrai.

More important, this makes me jubilant, ready to spend. Bonne chance checking out under $100.

Alas, a dilemma. Not enough mouths to feed. I can no longer justify a side of salmon, a quart of lime-cilantro shrimp, two pounds of jumbo cashews, enough baby spinach to sink Popeye. I cannot even justify the $55 annual membership, since my forays happen half a dozen times a year when business takes me to Greensboro or Durham and I drive away with a six-month supply of vanilla, pecans, cat food, pot-stickers, clam chowder, mouthwash and toilet paper.

Yet I just mailed the check — reasonable considering la vie en rose Costco delivers.

Admitting an attachment to a building and its contents may seem odd or worse, an advertisement. Mais, non! Does the Louvre advertise Mona Lisa which, by the way, is disappointingly small?

Over a lifetime, other buildings have imprinted my psyche. I’m partial to the Grove Park Inn in Asheville, Cameron Indoor Stadium at Duke and, especially, the engineering marvel that is the Doges Palace in Venice — but with a difference.

They don’t give away samples of pumpkin ravioli.

Vive la difference!  PS

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

Bag Man

Looking good off the rack

By Lee Pace

Yes, I have a wandering eye.
I have moved from one pretty thing to another. I check out the curves, the details, the accessories. I enjoy going into a busy place with a pretty one on my arm. I reflect on my exes and wince that I could have been so stupid to have been with that. If mine is hanging out with others, I’ll generally snicker at the ugliness of all that surrounds my jewel.

I admit it —  I’m a bit of a tart for golf bags.

Just in the last decade I have been with Titleist, Sun Mountain, MacKenzie, Stitch and Nike (for the blink of an eye). I have had bags with a stand and without, made with leather, canvas and waterproof synthetics, and even with velour linings. Various models have had compartments or attachments for umbrellas, water bottles, iPhones and range finders, though the latter is a moot point. I’m too cheap to buy a high-tech measuring device, and I’m not vain enough to think it matters a whit to know I’m 133 yards from the flag for certain versus the 130 I can estimate for myself.

As I am ever the traditionalist who’d rather walk than ride, my bags have tended to the lighter weights and fewer geegaws, though I’m constantly in a balancing act between simplicity and lusting for modern creature comforts.

I was gifted one of the original MacKenzie Walkers in the early 1990s but didn’t have the good sense to appreciate the materials, workmanship and utter simplicity of the tan leather bag, benching it after a wet day when the leather seemed to hold the water like lead pellets. Over the years, moving it from assorted garages to attics, the bag developed a rash of mold and mildew, which the company tried gallantly six years ago to remove — with modest results.

I carried an apple green, double-strapped bag for a while but got a sore left shoulder with the pretzel motion of putting my left arm through the second strap. Once in a captain’s choice tournament, I won a hideous Nike Performance bag that had 12 slots for clubs and was white and black with teal accents; I quickly sold it on Craigslist to some poor fool who likely plays golf in sandals and black socks.

For several years I’ve carried a MacKenzie ballistic bag, a two-pocket, single-strap bag made of navy fabric in the same design as the company’s more famous leather offering. The bag served me well and I appreciated its simplicity. But over time I grew to want at least a nudge toward convenience — a more accessible spot for my wallet and phone without them mixed in with balls and tees, for example, or a place for a water bottle or umbrella. I considered yielding to the appeal of a stand bag to ease the wear on my back, but the spindly metal legs add such an artificial element I’ve resisted the urge.

I wrote in these pages in the spring of 2015 of an innovative company in Cary called Stitch Golf that makes stylish leather head covers and accessories under the “Dress Your Game” hashtag. Stitch flirted briefly in fabricating and peddling a utilitarian and soft-spoken carry bag in British khaki and green camouflage designs, but I found the five-slot opening a bit narrow and the clubs prone to getting stuck when you tried to pull one. In due time owner Charlie Burgwyn discovered a vintage golf bag company on the West Coast trying to reinvent itself and ditched his own model and began carrying the wares of the Jones Golf Bag Co.

Anyone who played high school or college golf in the 1970s and ’80s likely remembers the Jones bag, which came in basic primary colors with a wide white strap and a plastic base that could stand up to countless whacks after a fat 6-iron shot.

George Jones was a cab driver and golf enthusiast in Portland, Oregon, in the early 1970s who, in his spare time, cobbled together utilitarian golf bags and sold them from the trunk of his cab. The bags were popular enough that he founded the Jones Golf Bag Co., the enterprise finding a niche as a manufacturer of inexpensive carry bags that most schools could afford to buy in bulk and outfit their entire squad. Jones sold the company in 1990, and over two decades the line lost its appeal as golf exploded and consumer demand migrated to shinier bells and louder whistles.

“After 20 years, there was nothing left but the name and a lot of memories,” says Matt Lemman, who grew up playing a Jones bag. “The bag was missed. There was nothing that substituted for it.”

Lemman’s father bought what was left of Jones’ entrepreneurial efforts in 2011 and turned the operation over to sons Matt and Tim and a third partner, Chris Carnahan. They began manufacturing the original Jones bag with updated materials and since have added to the line with stand bags, cart bags, luggage and accessories. Lemman says the company broke even in 2015 and was comfortably in the black in 2016.

“It’s been fun to bring the bag back to life,” says Matt, 30 years old. “It’s no picnic to start a business, but we’re lucky to have a brand that resonates with a lot of people.”

“People like to be reminded of a time when life was simpler,” adds Tim, 28.

Indeed, the Jones Original and Players Series models I carried in 2016 are the archetypes of minimalism and function. Over six months I tried both the Original model in kelly green and more recently a navy version in the Players Series. Both feature the ubiquitous Jones braided handle and plastic base and come in at around three pounds each. Both have three compartments — two long, narrow ones on the strap side of the bag, and a larger one on the opposite side. The bags are reasonably priced, with the Original model at $140 and the Players at $160.

I’ve settled on the Players Series for several reasons. The spine makes it easier to sling on a motor cart if I find myself in the position of having to ride. There’s a slot for a water bottle — essential for the hot Southern summers. And I thought the wide white strap on the Original model a bit unsightly to my eye; the strap on the Players is narrower, and the neat touch of having some tacky material on the underside helps keep the bag from slipping on my shoulder. And like all Jones bags, you can find the name only on the bottom and on an understated metal plate positioned on the spine; carrying a bag with the manufacturer’s name taking up 50 percent of the face just seems, well, crass.

“It’s everything you need, and nothing you don’t,” Lemman says. “There’s a niche for people who want a simpler way of doing things.”

And over time, I’ve gotten a better grasp on what I don’t need. I’ve cut my set down to 12 clubs, taking a couple pounds off the carry weight. I’d rather master the 56-degree wedge than try to dial in several lofts, and if I’m playing a course under 6,400 yards as I should, my 18-degree fairway wood is all I need for second shots on par-5s and perhaps an approach on a long par-4. Anthony Cordes, the sharp young club-fitting expert at Pinehurst, suggested in fitting me for a new set of Titleist irons last spring that I create a hybrid set by using my preferred blades, the forged and more classic-looking AP2s, for my wedge through 6-iron and then go to the more forgiving AP1 for the 5- and 4-iron. I’ve never hit so many good 4-irons as I have the last year.

The bag, clubs, several extra balls and spray bottles of sunscreen and insect repellant measure 17 pounds — a comfortable weight to lug around the course, particularly by alternating shoulders. The set-up is functional and the bag, accented with one leather and one knit head cover from Stitch, distinguishes itself amid the rubble of the bag drop.

The decade of the ’70s was not renowned for its design acumen — industrial, clothing or otherwise. Thankfully, though, there is the Jones Golf Bag to take a much-welcomed second lap.  PS

Chapel Hill-based writer Lee Pace promises to live by the Jones Golf mantra in 2017 — “Enjoy the walk.”

The Path Home

Finding roots among the brambles

By Jim Dodson

Not long after dawn on New Year’s Day, my wife, Wendy, and I picked our way through a patch of misty briar-choked woods to the base of an Interstate bridge that spans the Haw River in
Alamance County.

One hundred fifty years ago, my father’s great-grandfather operated a gristmill on the banks of the Haw, one of the state’s most important rivers. His name was George Washington Tate. As a kid, I’d seen the remains of the long-abandoned mill sitting at the river’s edge below the railings of the bridge, overgrown with weeds but clearly visible.

Half a century later, I was curious to see if the ruins of the mill might still be there.

George Washington Tate was something of gentrified Jack-of-all-trades — accomplished land surveyor, cabinetmaker, gristmill owner and prominent figure in the affairs of his church and economic development of neighboring Alamance and Orange counties. I grew up hearing that he was the man who officially established the legal boundaries of the state’s central counties following the Civil War. Greensboro’s Tate Street, which borders the campus of UNCG, is reportedly named for him.

Bits of family lore hold that old GWT was a circuit-riding deacon or lay minister who helped establish several Methodist churches across the western Piedmont, another that he forged the original bell in the Hillsborough courthouse.

The tale that has long fascinated me, however — first told to me by a pair of elderly spinster great-aunts named Josie and Ida, who lived into their 90s on Buckhorn Road east of Mebane — was that my father’s grandmother (Tate’s youngest daughter, Emma) was actually an orphaned Cherokee infant Tate “adopted” and brought home from a circuit ride out West, adding to a family that already included three sons and three daughters.

My dad soon confirmed this. As a kid, he’d spent many of his happiest summers as a kid staying with Aunt Emma at her farm off Buckhorn Road near Dodson’s Corners, and often talked about his grandmother’s closeness to the land and keen knowledge of natural medicines made from native plants he had sometimes helped her gather. “To a lot of her friends and neighbors, Aunt Emma was the community’s healer,” he explained to my older brother and me one Christmastime when we went to shoot mistletoe out of the huge red oaks that grew around her abandoned home place. “In those days the only doctor around was over in Hillsborough, 20 miles away.” He added, almost as a wistful afterthought: “She was happiest out in the woods and fields and knew the names of every plant. Local people loved and depended on her.”

Aunt Emma died in 1928, when my father was just 13. Aunt Emma was 70.

“She was an old lady,” he told me many years later, “but her death was shocking — the way she died. For years it was our family’s darkest secret, the thing nobody spoke about. No one saw it coming.”

Aunt Emma reportedly hanged herself from a beam of the house she shared with her husband, Jimmy. Years later, my father’s take on this was that she was challenged living with a foot in two worlds.

A grieving Uncle Jimmy soon gave up his farm and went to live with relatives in Greensboro, abandoning the family property. He lived another 14 years, passing away in 1942, the year my father enlisted in the Army Air Corps and trained to be a glider pilot for D-Day.

Because I heard this part of the story late in life — during a final trip to Scotland with my dad in 1994, when he was dying of cancer — I became more or less obsessed with Aunt Emma’s mysterious death and the colorful stories I’d grown up hearing about her important papa, George Washington Tate.

To some in our family — those who never heard this part of the story — my father’s grandmother is simply a tiny name on perhaps the largest family tree anyone has ever seen. I own a copy of this massive genealogical document, boasting a thousand or more family names branching off the taproot of one Thomas Squires and wife, Elizabeth, English settlers who arrived in the state in the late 1760s.

Most likely, they were part of the massive migration of Europeans along the so-called Great Wagon Road that brought an estimated half a million Scots, Irish, English and German settlers from Pennsylvania to Virginia and the Carolinas about that time. The Great Wagon Road, which began in Philadelphia and roamed out toward Lancaster and Harrisburg before turning south through Maryland and the valley of Virginia, crossing the Carolinas before terminating at the Savannah River in Augusta, Georgia, at 800 miles, was the most heavily traveled road in Colonial America.

Built over ancient Indian hunting routes, it’s the trading road that populated the South and served to open the Western frontier beyond the mountains. Thomas Jefferson’s daddy surveyed and named it. A young George Washington served as a scout along it, and no less than three wars were contested along it — including several key battles during the French and Indian, American Revolutionary and Civil Wars.

Today, if you ever travel Interstate 81 north of Roanoke, you’re traveling the path of the Great Wagon Road. The original road veered southeast from there and crossed into the Yadkin Valley, bringing the Moravians to Old Salem and the Quakers to Guilford County, before moseying along rivers toward Salisbury and the city named in honor of Queen Charlotte. After that, it split into two routes as it crossed South Carolina until meeting again in Georgia.

Last summer, my dad’s first cousin Roger Dodson, a retired missionary and wise family elder who grew up hearing many of the same stories I did about Aunt Emma, provided me with the only known photograph of the family mystery woman and shared his memories of having Uncle Jimmy live with his family for a time after Emma Dodson’s death. Roger also showed me a magnificent corner cabinet made by George Washington Tate, who operated a carpentry shop at his gristmill on the Haw. The cabinet is a one-piece work of art.

George Washington Tate was laid to rest beside his wife, Rachel, in the cemetery behind the Lebanon United Methodist Church in the country above Mebane.

Aunt Emma rests beside her husband, Jimmy, in the smaller burying ground at Chestnut Ridge Methodist Church, not far from Dodson’s Crossroads in Orange County.

Which brings us back to the edge of the historic Haw River on a cold and misty New Year’s morning a month or so ago.

Almost every American’s ancestors hailed from someplace else. But an old road, as the saying in the country goes, always brings someone home.

At a time when polls show many Americans are thinking anxiously about what direction our frontier democracy may go, I’m planning to spend the next year traveling and researching a book on the Great Wagon Road — the road that brought my people, and quite possibly yours, to this part of North Carolina.

It’s a book I’ve been keen to research and write for over a decade and a quest to try to find old George Washington Tate’s lost gristmill seemed like the ideal way to begin such a journey.

Unfortunately, time and progress stand still for no man. And part of me feared that the site where I first laid eyes on the foundation of my ancestor’s mill in the late 1960s — a popular river ford dating from the earliest days of the colony — had most likely been subsumed beneath an interstate highway that has doubled in size since I last visited.

As we stood on the banks of the river, we saw old trees and a handful of boulders in the slowly swirling eddies but, alas, no trace of the mill’s foundation.

I decided to take a couple of photos just the same, as my wife wandered over to a thick patch of brambles and pushed through to a small wooden maintenance bridge that crosses a gully to the base of the bridge.

“Oh, my gosh,” she said moments later, quietly adding, “Come here and look.”

Below the bridge was the old millrace, the sluice that once turned the wooden water wheel, half hidden beneath a curtain of old vines. The race was deep and still running with water, and we knew it belonged to the mill because foundation stones were also visible where time and water had exposed them.

As an expert I’ve been talking to about America’s “lost” roads once said to me, our past lies right before our eyes if we only know what we’re looking at — and where.

For this son of the ancient Haw, Aunt Emma and old George Washington Tate, this moment was like finding the start of a long path home.

We took a picture and went to find a robust country breakfast to celebrate our discovery, the start of a promising new year.  PS

If your family came down the Great Wagon Road, Editor Jim Dodson would be pleased to hear about it. Contact him at jim@thepilot.com.

PinePitch

Lots of Laughs and Bluegrass

This month the Rooster’s Wife lineup shows its totally serious appreciation of humor as well as music.

Friday, Feb. 3, Jeff Scroggins and Colorado, a high-energy five-piece bluegrass band, $20.

Friday, Feb. 10, Urban Soil , Dance Party! $10.

Sunday, Feb. 12, Rebecca & the Hi-Tones reunion! $15.

Friday, Feb. 17, Time Sawyer, $15.

Sunday, Feb. 19, Chris Jones and The Night Drivers, known for combining their distinctive music with a unique blend of dry wit and broad humor, $20.

Friday, Feb. 24, The Johnny Mac Comedy Show, $15.

Sunday, Feb. 26, Underhill Rose, a trio of female troubadours, accompanied by singer/song-writer Eric Taylor on his acoustic blues guitar, $20.

Doors open at 6 p.m. and music begins at 6:46 at the Poplar Knight Spot, 114 Knight St., Aberdeen. Call (910) 944-7502 or visit www.theroosterswife.org for more information and tickets.

A Poet’s Love

On Feb. 3, just in time for Valentine’s Day, tenor Timothy W. Sparks and pianist Deborah Lee Hollis evoke the highs and lows of romance from the perspective of a writer. This collection of songs covers a variety of musical styles from across Europe and explores every facet of a love affair, with selections from “To Julia” by Roger Quilter, “Poème d’un Jour” by Gabriel Fauré, “Petrarch” sonnets by Franz Liszt, and the complete “Dichterliebe” by Robert Schuman. The performance, which begins at 7 p.m., is sponsored by Ralph and Vivian Jacobson, who invite you to stay for a reception in the Great Room at Boyd House following the performance. Tickets are $10 for Weymouth Members and $20 for non-members. Weymouth Center for Arts and Humanities, 555 E. Connecticut Ave., Southern Pines. For more information call (910) 692-6261 or visit weymouthcenter.org.

Dress up, Dine and Dance… and Bid

The Sandhills Classical Christian School is holding its 2nd annual Valentine’s Day Bowtie Ball on Feb. 10 at the Fair Barn. Elliott’s on Linden is catering the dinner and a string quartet will provide the music during cocktails. The evening also includes a silent and live auction managed by professional auctioneer Colonel Ben Farrell, special student performances, Champagne and sweets and, of course, dancing. A ticket of $125 per person includes a choice of entree, salad, dessert bar and beverage, as well as two drink tickets for cocktails. Beer, wine and Cham-pagne are complimentary. A portion of the ticket is tax deductible. The festivities begin at 6 p.m. The Fair Barn is located at 200 Beulah Road S. Pinehurst. For more information or to see items up for bidding, call (910) 690-6176 or visit www.sandhillsccs.org. Tickets can be purchased at https://portal11.bidpal.net/Portal/bpe299703/tickets/preview.html.

From Broadway with Love

On Feb. 10 and 11, Touching Humanity presents New York singers Jason Gotay and Elysia Jordan at The Hannah Center Theater at The O’Neal School. Tickets are $28 in advance and can be purchased at The Given Memorial Library, The Country Bookshop or online at www.touchinghumanityinc.org (plus $2 service charge); or $35 at the door. A portion of the proceeds benefits Friend to Friend, a Moore County nonprofit organization that helps victims of domestic violence, sexual assault and human trafficking rebuild their lives. The performance begins at 7:30 p.m. The Theater is located at 3300 Airport Road, Southern Pines. For more information, contact Michael Pizzi at sandhillsbroadway@gmail.com or call (347) 385-4207.

Penick Art Show and Auction

The 11th Annual Penick Art Show and Auction, held on Feb. 25 and 26 from 10 a.m.–4 p.m. at the Village House, features two local artists.

Evelyn Dempsey has studied drawing and painting with Denise Baker at Sandhills Community College and Jeffrey Mims of Southern Pines. Her still lifes, landscapes and portraits reflect her early interest in South Carolina artist Elizabeth O’Neill Verner and Classical Realism.

Potter Ben Owen III’s apprenticeship to his grandfather formed the basis of his work. With formal studies and international travel,
Owen has developed a unique style inspired from culture and nature.

A Ticketed Preview ($50) will be held Friday, Feb. 24, at 6:30 p.m. Proceeds are dedicated to the Penick Village Benevolent Assistance Fund. 500 E. Rhode Island Ave., Southern Pines. For information, contact Hunter Wortham at (910) 692-0492.

Under the Sea on Stage

In a magical kingdom beneath the sea, the beautiful young mermaid Ariel is fascinated by the world above. When a handsome human prince falls overboard, she returns him to land, and falls overboard in love with him. Now she wants to live in his world, much to the distress of her father, the King, who has problems of his own with an evil sister threatening his rule. Based on Hans Christian Andersen’s classic story and Disney’s animated film, The Little Mermaid is a legendary love story brought to life with delightful characters, stunning sets and irresistible songs such as “Under the Sea” and “Kiss the Girl.” Performances at 7:30 p.m. Wednesday-Saturday, and 2 p.m. Saturday-Sunday through Feb. 12 at Cape Fear Regional Theatre, 1209 Hay St., Fayetteville. For tickets, call (910) 323-4233 or visit www.cfrt.org.

An Evening with Amadeus

On Feb. 1, just a few days and 251 years after the birth of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, the North Carolina Symphony will be in Southern Pines to present “All Mozart.” The program includes the overture to “The Abduction from the Seraglio,” Violin Concerto No. 4, “Eine Kleine Nachtmusik” and Symphony No. 39. On the violin will be Jinjoo Cho, a young performer who has won numerous international awards for her technical skills and captivated audiences around the world with her vibrant musical personality. With the charismatic Grant Llewellyn conducting, this promises to be a memorable celebration of one of the most beloved composers of all time. The performance begins at 8 p.m., at Lee Auditorium, Pinecrest High School, 250 Voit Gilmore Lane, Southern Pines. Call for ticket prices and additional information: (910) 692-6554.

A Rising Cellist Star

On Feb. 6, The Arts Council of Moore County present cellist Cicely Parnas in the third performance of the 2016–17 Classical Concert Series. Parnas, now in her early 20s, started playing the cello at the age of 4, made her concerto debut at 11, and in 2012 won the Young Concert Artists International Auditions. She has performed at Carnegie Hall, the Kennedy Center, the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum and with numerous orchestras. The performance begins at 8 p.m. Tickets are $30. Start your evening with a pre-concert dinner at Wolcott’s for $37/pp (tax and tip included). Reserve for dinner by Feb. 2 by calling The Arts Council (910) 692-2787. The performance will be at the Sunrise Theater, 250 NW Broad St., Southern Pines. For more information, call (910) 692-8501 or visit sunrisetheater.com.

Raise the Roof

One of the Sunrise Theater’s most popular and enduring events, returns for its 16th edition on Saturday, February 18, at 7:30 PM at the storied venue. As always, it will spotlight an array of local talent with acts that will appeal to people of all ages and tastes.
For more information, call (910) 692-8501 or
visit sunrisetheater.com

Who Gives a Flip?

Yours truly — until I tried it myself

By Renee Phile

“Flip that water bottle one more time and see what happens!” I heard myself declare. On this particular day, I was so totally done with all the nonsense. I had let it go on for far too long. After all, objects flying across the room and through the halls are not uncommon occurrences in our house. On any given day, there may be Nerf gun bullets, footballs, socks, juggling balls, or even varieties of produce whizzing by. Whatevs. I’m to the point where I ignore a lot of it. Choose your battles, my mom says. Nerf gun wars and juggling oranges in the kitchen are not battles I want to tackle, unless of course, David bruises all my oranges, which he has done, and yes, then I will fight.

So when the boys continuously flipped the half-full bottles of water so they rotated in the air and then landed on the table and then rolled to the floor, I frowned. The sloshes and then the thuds messed with my sanity. Over the next few days though, they kept flipping, and not just half-full water bottles. They flipped bottles of Sunkist, and I even caught Kevin trying to flip a half-full milk jug! The lid was not on properly, and milk sloshed from the jug, all over the kitchen floor.

“Enough with the flipping!” I demanded.

“But Mom, it’s fun!” he said.

“It’s stupid, and it makes no sense.”

“Stupid isn’t a nice word to say, Mom.”

I sighed. “Can’t you play with something else?”

The next day in my own classroom, before class started, a student sat at his desk with a half-full water bottle in front of him. With no warning whatsoever, he picked up the bottle and would you believe this, he flipped it. The bottle rotated once, tumbled to the side, and rolled to the edge of the desk. He grabbed the bottle before it fell to the ground and then started over.

The girl next to him looked annoyed. Three minutes until class started.

“Um, could you please stop?” I finally asked, after four flips.

“Sorry,” he said as he steadied his water bottle on his desk.

“Wait, why do you do that? First tell me why you do that, flip the water bottles, I mean.”

His eyes brightened and he pulled his phone from his pocket and quickly looked up a video and handed me the device. The video showed him flipping a water bottle with one quick wrist flick. The bottle rotated once and then landed straight up on a table.

“Oh, cool,” I muttered. And it was cool.

Then he showed me another video of a kid from Charlotte who flipped a water bottle for a talent show and it landed upright. The crowd roared its approval. He explained to me that kids all over the world are now flipping water bottles, the goal to land them upright. It’s an art that takes so much practice, but sometimes, just sometimes, with the perfect amount of luck and skill, the bottle rotates once and lands upright.

Later that day, both of my boys and their neighbor friend were all sitting around the kitchen table, taking turns flipping their bottles. I watched for a few minutes before I, too, emptied out some of the water from my water bottle and tried. (The water bottle should be 1/2 to 1/4 full, or so I’ve heard.) I tried several times, but no successful landing.

I guess at this point, I have changed my attitude about the flipping subject. The noise is obnoxious, but my boys can entertain themselves for hours and they aren’t fighting with each other or zoned out watching TV or playing video games.

Every now and then, I will discreetly practice my own flip (to this day, I have not succeeded in the perfect landing, but I am still working on it).

Flip. Slosh. Thud. Roll. Repeat.  PS

Renee Phile teaches at Sandhills Community College and is happy to announce that, since writing this story, she has flipped a water bottle and it landed perfectly. 

Risky Biscuits

Mule-headed Aquarians: about to bust with a new sense of direction

By Astrid Stellanova

Aquarians are in fine fettle this year. Everybody calls them visionary — which in my opinion means: They are stubborn as mules, but much better-looking. Aquarians are true to themselves, having mule wisdom that makes them unlike any other Star Child. The Aquarian nature is naturally smart and everybody knows it. They’re ready for the New Year and busting with a sense of direction. And they’re bent upon getting there first and plowing a new field — except when they positively cannot get out of their own way. Ad Astra — Astrid

Aquarius (January 20–February 18)

Oh, there’s something you want so flipping much you can just taste it but you are holding back. But you would die if anybody knew, wouldn’t you? Birthday Child, you gotta risk it for the biscuit. When you see what you want, don’t hold back until the biscuit is cold and stale. Pick it up, and slather it with some butter.

Pisces (February 19–March 20)

It ain’t a story till you tell it. . . and you have got to tell it before you bust wide open, Honey. Who did what to who is the narrative that has kept you on edge for waaaay too long. You know who buried the body, dontcha?

Aries (March 21–April 19)

Jay-zus, take the wheel, because you do not have a clue where you are going. And, to the alarm of us all, you are going 100 miles per hour like you are Richard Petty at the Indy 500. For godsakes, let somebody else be the pace car.

Taurus (April 20–May 20)

Opportunity has knocked twice. If you ignore it again, you will have to wait until the next astral cycle for a big opportunity like this one, Baby. Your heart has been pounding like wet sneakers in the drier. Ignore your fears. Open. The. Door.

Gemini (May 21–June 20)

Smug, ain’t you? There are so many ignorant people, and, in your not-so-humble opinion, they seem to be procreating in record numbers. If you don’t learn anything else, you might just try a little checking that attitude and making your sense of humor your bigger goal.

Cancer (June 21–July 22)

To those closest to you, your life is about as bewildering as a dumpster fire. Sugar, when you threw your troubles out the window, you threw something valuable with it. Reassess what you deleted. There are some friendships that you can still restore, and still need, Sugar.

Leo (July 23–August 22)

Your best friend in life, your mirror self, only had two things when you met. Their past and their future. Somehow, you overlooked just how much you two have in common. But if you surrender the past — both of you — there is so much waiting in the present.

Virgo (August 23–September 22)

If you hear yourself saying you are the voice of reason, then you know that everybody else is screwed. Baby, you have got to be kidding. Somebody cares about your future and you haven’t given them the time of day. Revisit, revise and renew yourself.

Libra (September 23–October 22)

Honey, when is “old enough to have learned something about life” going to kick in for you? You have allowed some issues to recycle themselves — old lessons still waiting. They ain’t going away. They are just going to hide in the closet until you invite them inside.

Scorpio (October 23–November 21)

You may not exactly hate your new situation, but let’s just say it feels like the Monday of your life is rolling 24/7. As a matter of fact, you did get a raw deal, Honey. But rolling in everybody’s sympathy ain’t going to help you. Put some steel in your backbone and Tuesday will come.

Sagittarius (November 22–December 21)

Now, I’m not saying you don’t have the big picture, but Child, if you were a bird you would know exactly who to dump this one on. Repeat after me: It ain’t your fault. And it ain’t yours to fix. The mess you have been cleaning up on Aisle 5 was never your fault.

Capricorn (December 22–January 19)

Somebody in your life tests your last nerve with their endless complaining. And then, to set you off, they do an eye roll. Which suggests they are gonna find a brain back there in that numb skull one day. Sugar, there is a reason this crazy maker is still in your life. They are not here to teach you eye calisthenics, either. PS

For years, Astrid Stellanova owned and operated Curl Up and Dye Beauty Salon in the boondocks of North Carolina until arthritic fingers and her popular astrological readings provoked a new career path.

Unwelcome Visitors

When ice storms coat the pines

By Bill Fields

Let’s face it, the winters aren’t very wintry in the Sandhills. The place never would have taken off if they were. Golf, horseback riding and walking down lanes that smell better than any candle are, at their essentials, ways of thawing out.

That said, anyone who experienced the ice storms of the late-1960s — there were doozies in January of ’68 and February of ’69 — hasn’t forgotten them. For those of us not around in 1954, they were our Hurricane Hazel. Each winter storm affected a large swath of the state, with the Southern Pines-Pinehurst area practically ground zero for an inch or more of freezing rain followed by significant snowfall.

It was a sadistic snow globe of precipitation, the weight turning pine trees into matchsticks and making power lines as weak as rotted twine.

The weather turned nasty after sunset during both storms, as I recall, which meant that you heard the damage before seeing it. There were a dozen or so longleafs in our yard, along with sycamores, maples and cedars. The neighbors had plenty of trees, too, with undeveloped acres across the street, ensuring that the snap, crackle and pop went on for hours as trunks and branches were overmatched by the elements, a number of them sabotaging electric cables as they crashed down.

My parents’ legitimate worries — and mine, as I struggled to go to sleep while Mother Nature wreaked havoc — about something big falling off and hitting the house were unrealized, but the morning light revealed a mess. Many trees that weren’t broken were bowed as if waiting for a giant archer, limbs and needles glistening in a gorgeous yet destructive coating of ice.

After our street was scouted for downed wires, the icy-snowy surface made for great sledding. The conditions outside were not ideal for our gray tabby, Linus, but that didn’t stop him, the night after the ’68 winter storm, from climbing a pine tree in our next-door neighbor’s front yard and ending up on an icy branch unwilling or unable to get down. 

Cats can make quite a sound if they’re in love or get their tail caught in a closing door, but trust me, the meow-howl-distress call of a domestic feline stranded 20 feet off the ground on a cold, frosty night is a singular noise. The following day, no number of familiar faces below him could coax Linus down from his perch. My father had to borrow from another neighbor an extension ladder, its rungs icy as well, to go up and rescue our cat. Linus warmed up, eventually. He lived out his days without repeating such drama but was never again enthusiastic about joining me at my summer hideaway on a lower branch of a dogwood on the east side of our yard.

If you’re 8 or 9 years old, a week without electricity is an adventure. A motel was contemplated but my father — hoping it would be a shorter outage and mindful that $19.95-a-night would add up — decided to purchase a kerosene oil heater to keep us from freezing if we huddled in just a couple of rooms. Despite a pungent smell, it allowed us to warm up soup and wieners and make grits for breakfast, the limited menu broken up by a few restaurant visits.

We went through a lot of D batteries in flashlights and radios. We read, played checkers and listened to basketball games. We paid particular attention to WEEB if there was an update about when the lights — and heat — might come back on.

As the outage continued, I became as eager as Mom and Dad for the electricity to be restored. We weren’t a camping family — my father had far too much of the real thing during World War II — and it was starting to feel like camping out. Our neighborhood lines were some of the last in town to be repaired, causing us to stay on the lookout for a Carolina Power & Light crew like it was a Brinks delivery with our name on it. Seven days after the winter storm arrived, the tool-belted CP&L linemen showed up in their bucket truck. As we were returned to the 20th century, we were as grateful to them as Linus had been to Dad.

It was a good long while before we had hot dogs for supper.  PS

Southern Pines native Bill Fields, who writes about golf and other things, moved North in 1986 but hasn’t lost his accent.

Vodka Rising

How my first love of spirits has won me over again

By Tony Cross

My earliest memories, or foggiest memories, of first drinking liquor trace back to vodka. Full disclosure: The very first time I drank spirits was Everclear with grape Kool-Aid — that’s all I’ll say about that. As I’ve ventured into the world of cocktailing, there have been so many new varieties of gin, tequila, rum and so forth that I’ve easily brushed vodka to the side without giving it proper attention. Vodka is number two in international sales (behind baijiu, a Chinese spirit made from fermented sorghum), so it’d be a little doltish of me to not pay respect to my first love.

Vodka can be made from myriad ingredients: corn, grains, potatoes, maple syrup, grapes, even soybeans. Instead of being distilled in a pot, like other types of spirits, vodka is distilled in large continuous column stills. The impurities are then filtered, usually by coal, though there are other methods. Vodka isn’t aged, so once it’s filtered, it’s ready to go. I’m too lazy to find out how flavored vodkas are produced, so if you happen to know, please tell me.

The martini craze in the early 2000s spawned the flavored vodka movement, but the emphasis even on non-flavored was huge. Martini lists across the nation called anything with vodka and a syrupy concoction paired with it a (fill in the blank)-tini. No lie, one time I remember seeing a 10-drink “martini” list comprised of vodka and every kind of juice and sweetener they had behind the bar. But, hey, they sold.

It also helped vodka sales when Sex and the City brought the cosmopolitan to the front of the list for every female’s first choice of a cocktail. There are a lot of bartenders that hate making that drink. Matter of fact, there are certain cocktail bars that will not make them — one of the house rules for Bourbon & Branch, a speakeasy in San Francisco. As for myself, I’ll quote Jeffrey Morgenthaler, who says that there are no bad drinks, just bad bartenders/ingredients. It is a cocktail that should be spirit forward, with just a touch of cranberry juice. If you order a cosmo, and it looks like cranberry juice in a martini glass, you’ve been duped.

As much as I’ve given my friends grief over the years for not going out of their comfort zone, and spicing up their drink selections, I get the message. For the most part, vodka is flavorless, especially when mixing it into a cocktail with bold ingredients. One way to taste-test different vodkas is to sample them at room temperature. For cocktails, vodka is a great base because it allows the other ingredients to shine. For an example, take the “Anna Paige” cocktail I created a few years ago. I had infused a vanilla bean into a small bottle of light agave syrup and it tasted fantastic. Immediately, I knew that I wanted Campari to pair with it, but didn’t want the bitter-forward amari to be the base for the drink. In walks TOPO vodka. Using vodka allowed me to give the drink some oomph, while not compromising the integrity of the other ingredients. Check out the recipe below.

I’ve noted before that our ABC stores (in Moore County, at least) are saturated with flavored vodkas. Please keep in mind that there are many vodkas out there that are small batched, and locally made (see TOPO vodka from Chapel Hill). Unlike other recommendations I’ve made, you’ll have to order this one online: Zubrówka Bison Grass Vodka. This Polish vodka comes in at 40 percent ABV with a straw-colored hue. It’s unlike any other vodka I’ve consumed — rich and creamy on the mouth, with a touch of vanilla (almost like cream soda) on the palate, with an exquisite finish. See for yourself.

Anna Paige

1 3/4 oz TOPO vodka

1/4 ounce Campari

1/2 ounce vanilla-infused light agave*

1/2 ounce grapefruit juice

1/4 ounce lime juice

Place all ingredients in your cocktail shaker. Add ice, and shake vigorously until your gut tells you to stop. If your gut is being coy, shake hard for another 10 seconds. Double-strain into a chilled coupe glass, and garnish with the oils of a grapefruit peel.

* Take one vanilla bean, slice down the middle, scraping the pod clean on the inside. Add both pod and bean into a small bottle of light agave. I use the MadHava Light Agave (11.75 oz) from Nature’s Own.  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.