Pieces that Speak

There are real stories in stuff

By Joyce Reehling

I walk around our house and hear stories quietly recounting themselves. Everything we own can tell a tale, and we should remember and share it around the dinner table. The real story.

Sometimes we dress up the story about how our “beloved” aunt left us this bowl when, in fact, she was a grouchy old thing that no one liked being around and the best part was the bowl. Tell that story.

Or the rickety, reassembled chair that once collapsed into laughter and pieces under the weight of a friend nicknamed Porky. Tell that story.

Or my little pine, drop leaf table. It sits in our den where it looks as if it doesn’t belong because it is so plain, casual and seldom used. It was the first piece of real furniture that I bought in New York for my very small apartment. I also bought two chairs which are long gone (not, however, casualties of Porky), but I can’t part with this table. I remember seeing it in a small shop on the Upper West Side one Saturday morning. I wasn’t in a show at the time so I had a Saturday to myself. I bought this table and managed to wrestle it home on my own once they had taped it up so it wouldn’t flop open every other step. Most of my life in New York I lived on the fourth floor of a walk-up but luckily, then, I Iived in an elevator building. Instant dining area! A real table and chairs.

I imagined dinners with a friend or, perhaps, a man who would be madly in love with me eating my snappy dinners. But that almost never happened because I worked in the theater and no one else wants to eat at 4:30 in the afternoon to be settled by show time. But I love that table. I look at it and feel younger. I am still, under the drop leafs, that 20-something girl walking excitedly down the street building a real life with a table.

I hang on with great joy to a funny little pitcher and sugar bowl that my maternal grandfather bought when he was quite young and forced to go to work to support his mom and sisters after his father died. He bought this silver-plated set to give to his mother — a true young Southern gentleman living in Richmond, making a gesture meant to uplift a sad and grieving soul. Their de minimis value means nothing. It is the thought of this boy, my grandfather, doing without to give this gift. His love resides with me each and every day. When I polish these pieces my heart glows from his generosity. O’Henry could not have done better.

We buy houses around a dining table. Ours is from Darling Husband’s side of the family. His maternal grandfather, Ferruccio Vitale, an Italian immigrant and a renowned landscape architect until the crash of ‘29, brought with him some amazing furniture. The table is the one D.H. ate family dinners around as a boy. And his mother sat at it when she was a child, too.

It is almost one plank of wood, some trim and some inlay; the legs are two large pedestals with deep acanthus leaf carvings. It takes a basketball team to move it. We believe it to be Florentine, unquestionably unique. Its eight regal chairs match it the way the planets match the sun. Dinners, debates, tears and laughs have spilled over this wood. Great food, great wine and culinary failures have flowed across it. It tells all those stories. Ferruccio must know how we love it so. It defines our house.

I have, among our many paintings, one by our friend Chipp Well, of the moon setting over a pond. It not only keeps Chipp alive in our hearts but on any day when the world is too hard to bear, the news too sad to take, that moon shining on the pond can bring my blood pressure right down. Even a melancholy moon promises another day.

The cups from the Orient Express are crying out for some tea so that I might see the Alps and feel the crisp air. Ask and I will tell the story.  PS

Joyce Reehling is a frequent contributor and good friend of PineStraw.

Almanac

April Flowers

Daisy and sweet pea are this month’s birth flowers. The first is a symbol of innocence and purity, while the latter represents blissful pleasure. If you wish to brighten someone’s day, a simple bouquet of fern and daisies will speak volumes. A gift of fragrant sweet pea, on the other hand, is best reserved for a sweet goodbye.

Every spring is the only spring — a perpetual astonishment. — Ellis Peters

April Love Song

If ever there were a more delicious poem than April, perhaps only the bluebird would know it. Or the nectar-drunk duskywing. Or the glossy black rat snake, so entranced by the color of the robin’s egg that he swallows the pastel vessel whole.

April is here. Sow the beets and the broccoli. Plant the beans and the cukes. Harvest the tender green shoots of asparagus.

Welcome the rain. Let it kiss you, mused Harlem jazz poet Langston Hughes. Listen to its “sleep-song” on your roof at night.

Earth Day falls on Saturday, April 22. This month, gift the Earth a poem of love. Plant a tree in the garden. Buy local produce. Organize a community cleanup. And when the Earth sings, listen.   

Let the rain kiss you.

Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops.

Let the rain sing you a lullaby.

The rain makes still pools on the sidewalk.

The rain makes running pools in the gutter.

The rain plays a little sleep-song on our roof at night —

And I love the rain.

— Langston Hughes, “April Rain Song”

Must-See Moon

According to National Geographic, one of the “Top 7 Must-See Sky Events for 2017” will occur on Monday, April 10. On this dreamy spring night, just moments after sunset, Jupiter and the near-full Pink Moon will rise together in the eastern sky like forbidden lovers.

The Old Farmer’s Almanac speculates that a full moon in April brings frost. While it’s not actually pink, Algonquin tribes likely named this month’s full moon for the wild ground phlox that blooms with the arrival of spring. Also called the Sprouting Grass, Fish and Egg Moon, if the full Pink Moon rises pale on April 11, bet your folklore-loving bippy it will rain.

A Few Delicious Words

Henry James once mused that “summer afternoon” were perhaps the “two most beautiful words in the English language.”

“Easter brunch” make a
lovely pair.

Ditto “asparagus frittata.”

So if you find yourself playing host on Sunday, April 16, and life gives you fresh asparagus spears, steam until tender then add them to your favorite egg dish.

The Medicine Chest

Want to try your hand at an herb garden? Start now. Since most herbs thrive in full or filtered sun, carve out a cozy outdoor space with optimal light and drainage. Then, allow yourself to dream. Conjure up visions of lush beds with tidy labels, dark opal basil tangled with pineapple sage, aromatic bundles of herbs hanging upside down inside the coolest rooms of the house. Whether it’s medieval apothecary or fresh pesto that you’re craving, April is here to help make manifest your fantasy.

Here’s what to plant this month. Cue “Scarborough Fair” for reference.

Parsley – Rich in cancer-fighting compounds.

Sage – Digestive aid.

Rosemary – Improves memory.

Thyme – Antiseptic and anti-fungal properties.  PS

A Flash of Green

The stealthy green heron returns to N.C.’s waterways

By Susan Campbell

The green heron is probably one of the coolest little birds around — but one that I’d bet most folks have never seen. They return from tropical wintering grounds to breed across the state in early spring, migrating under the cover of darkness back to where they first hatched, beginning the cycle anew. Right now flocks are moving northward in order to pair up for the breeding season.  Although they are widely distributed, the green heron’s cryptic coloration and skulking behavior make them tricky to spot.

Standing a mere 18 inches tall and only about the size of a crow, this species is by far the smallest of about a dozen types of waders found in North Carolina. As with all herons, these birds have relatively long legs and a skinny neck, as well as a long, dagger-like bill. Given that green herons typically stand with their necks tucked in, individually they may seem smaller than they are. Their backs are a velvety green (hence the name), their bodies a handsome chestnut and their legs a pale yellow. The feathers on the head, in addition to the wings, are dark gray and often stand erect, giving the appearance of a shaggy crest. As with other herons and egrets, males are identical to females.

During the spring, males seek out thick shrubbery along the edge of a wet spot and begin building a platform of thin sticks as a nest. After attracting a mate, the male looses interest in nest-building, and it is the female that completes the shallow nest. Although the location may very well be along a creek or pond, it may also be man-made, for instance around a smaller depression adjacent to a water hazard on a golf course. Probably more important is whether or not there’s sufficient access to food and woody vegetation to support three to five chicks. Although other wading bird species generally nest in colonies, green heron pairs usually keep to themselves. But they, especially the males, are fiercely territorial when it comes to defending their feeding area. They will vocalize loudly and chase any bird that is perceived as a threat.

Green herons spend most of their time crouched completely still, alongside a wet spot, waiting for prey to appear. They will grab any moving creature that is small enough to swallow. Fish, frogs, crayfish, larger insects and even the odd hummingbird make up their diet. Occasionally, they may spear their food, but most often they grab what they catch with their powerful mandibles. And while green herons are very successful ambush-style predators, they sometimes show a cunning side, using objects such as sticks and insects very deliberately to lure fish to the surface. Surprisingly, they may also occasionally dive after prey. With partial webbing between their toes, they can swim short distances, if need be.

A few green herons lurk in the very southeastern part of our state each winter but most head to Mexico or Central America where food is more plentiful during the colder months. Our birds pass through Florida and head for the Caribbean on their way to marshlands in Central America.  There will be plenty of time in the coming months to spot one of these fascinating water birds. So the next time you’re passing a nearby farm pond or overgrown stream bank, carefully scan the banks and low branches — you may just catch sight of this neat little heron!  PS

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

True Blue

Basketball forms an unbreakable bond

By Deborah Salomon

By the time you read this, The Big Dance should be over and the Final Four whittled down to the NCAA Men’s Basketball champion — which leaves a giant crater in my life, not to be filled until November when, once again, I hear the pitter-patter of huge feet on polished wood.

Doubtful that Duke will cut down the nets, but you never know. My Blue Devils forever remain the Fab Five to acolytes who view basketball as performance art, a ballet performed by glistening bodies wearing bright colors and fanciful hairstyles. They move like gazelles and, like gazelles, oftimes fall to predators.

Basketball is Greek tragedy, Shakespearean drama, Seinfeld humor, whereas football is, blunt force trauma exerted beneath a pyramid of bodies.

My passion reawakened upon returning to North Carolina in 2007. I heard people slander my alma mater, branding its students arrogant Yankees, spoiled brainiacs, nasty losers and worse.

Back through the time machine I spun, landing on East Campus, in 1956, already smitten. My high school team had won the N.C. State Championship in 1955, a heady experience. Duke, always a b-ball powerhouse, distributed books of free tickets to frosh and encouraged them to attend games. Dorm curfew was extended so we could cheer to the end.

Neither term paper nor exam kept me away.

Interest waned after graduation, as I raised a family in the Far North, although The Big Dance remained a rite of spring. I followed more closely when my daughter matriculated (along with Coach K) in 1980, graduated in 1984 but remained in Durham. She adored Duke basketball, too — even hitched a ride to the 1989 Battle in Seattle.

The sights and sounds came rushing back as I was now forced to play defense: Under the face paint and wigs the Cameron Crazies aren’t really crazy. Players are neither arrogant nor unsportsmanlike. Coach K doesn’t make rat faces. Academics mean as much as alley-oops. While speaking out, I discovered the root of my affinity. Basketball represented a happy interlude within a framework of rules which students respected and obeyed. The specter of finding a job and paying down student loans did not cloud the experience. Business, chemistry, pre-med and education majors connected over basketball.

We cheered our teams and received our diplomas at Cameron Indoor.

But oh, how basketball has changed. Integration provided a new dimension. Improved training methods and machines increased strength and endurance. Tall guys married tall women and produced 7-footers. Recruiters scanned Europe, the Middle East and Africa for raw talent. Games are broadcast in high definition, revealing each bead of sweat, every mouthed expletive on enormous court-shaped screens. What remains constant is the loyalty to an institution, at a formative age, that a sport engenders.

So what if Duke loyalists are obnoxious. We earned it. Show me another school with equal decibels at every game, not just the biggies.

And now, April, when the dance music crescendos — then fades. For me the experience is bittersweet. Duke won its first national championship on April 1, 1991. My daughter, Wendy, was ecstatic. She died 25 days later. I can no longer watch The Big Dance without tears.

Other hallmarks of the college experience have changed as well: laptops for note-taking, dining halls morphed into an international food courts, rules relaxed or repealed, co-ed dorms. What happened to yearbooks, class blazers? Newer buildings, although architecturally magnificent, remind me of kudzu, obliterating the familiar. An addition to the Duke Gardens bears the name of a shy boy who sat next to me in English class. On a recent visit I noticed how different Cameron looks. A new entry and lobby, enlarged offices and training facilities, a courtyard designated Krzyzewskiville, where students camp out for tickets. I felt a bit overwhelmed, lost, until I saw the ladies’ room door. Inside, pure 1956: a high gothic window, massive porcelain sinks and hardwood stalls with heavy metal latches that work on the guillotine principle.

Home, at last. I felt so much better until a glimpse in the mirror confirmed that what had changed the most wasn’t Duke . . . but me. Older, sadder, experienced, resigned but after all these years, still feisty, still connected.  PS

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

Art of Association

What the IRS and a legendary ’63 VW Bug (that could fly) have in common

By Jim Moriarty

It was tax time, moving day for money, and the website requested the answer to one of my security questions:

What was the make of your first car?

The answer is Volkswagen. It’s OK if you know because I took the precaution of layering in an extra level of cyber impregnability by misspelling the word, using an “o” where an “e” was required. I would like to say this was done as a diabolically clever defense against Russian hackers except that it was more a case of inadvertent stupidity. Or vertent stupidity. Whatever.

My first car was, however, a white VW bug. I think it was a ’63 purchased after its atomic half-life had expired, if the porous condition of the front wheel wells was any indication. As with most first cars, I didn’t stray far from what I knew. Growing up, the family car had been a little black VW bug, and I meant to reprise those cuddly memories. The air-cooled engine was in the back. The trunk was in the front. The bumpers looked like the teeth of a Bond villain. There was a lever on the floor you could flip with the toes of your right foot to access the reserve gas tank, the very existence of which suggested the dashboard gauge was more of a guidepost than a hard and fast rule. The heat worked, but only in the summer, and the sunroof slid back and forth like Weird Al Yankovich’s accordion. Yet, we were fond of it.

Near Christmas, after my mother got her bonus, the four of us — three boys and a little old lady — would drive to the tree lot by the highway, pick out something that still had a few needles on it, jam it down into the sunroof and drive home with the top third of our new spruce bending in the wind. We took Karwick Road home because of its legendary dip. Not to suggest that people who grow up in flat parts of the globe are easily amused, but this spot was known countywide and jumping it was pretty much what everyone did on Saturday nights if the movie was sold out. If you accelerated just right going into the Karwick Road jump, you could get all four wheels of a VW bug, with tree and four passengers, entirely off the ground. So, it was the recollection of a family hurtling through the air singing about Good King Wenceslas that I meant to recapture with my first automobile purchase.

But, you can’t go home again — at least not in a ’63 bug.

The first trip of any length I made in the white version of my black memory was my honeymoon. Our honeymoon. We went to French Lick. (Insert joke here.) While we were there, my bride, the War Department, got an abscessed tooth. We left for home, of course, though I was conflicted. Her jaw was swollen so badly I was afraid to take her home for fear her father would assume the worst and shoot me. On the trip back, it snowed. Heavy, cold snow. Since it was winter and not summer, the heater didn’t work. The air streaming into the car was so cold we took to stuffing dirty socks and underwear into the vents to try to preserve what little body heat we could. Because the remaining steel in the front wheel wells looked more like a lace doily than, say, sheet metal, slushy, salty water from the road sloshed about in the space at my new wife’s feet forcing her to ride with her face bandaged, medicated against the pain, wrapped in her winter coat with her boots propped against the windshield.

We couldn’t find anyplace to stop and thaw out because it was January 1st and everything was closed. It was the year of the oil embargo so even the gas stations weren’t open. Finally, in the distance we saw a banner:

New Year’s Day Mattress Sale

Stumbling into the furniture store like witless survivors of the Donner Party, we threw ourselves on the nearest queen-sized bed and stayed there until we could feel our extremities again.

And that’s how the IRS got paid.  PS

Jim Moriarty is senior editor of PineStraw and can be reached at jjmpinestraw@gmail.com.

 

Under Pressure

Carbonating a cocktail adds a bit of sizzle

By Tony Cross

We’re living in an amazing time, with a plethora of questions, answers, ideas and collaborations at our fingertips. I’ve never been great at anything but, thanks to the internet, I’ve learned enough to know what I’m doing. Everything from raising the temperature on my hot water heater, to recipes — the internet, especially YouTube, has been a great friend indeed. I would, and still do, fall asleep every night to YouTube while watching tutorials, music reviews and workout tips on my iPhone. A few years ago, I came across a YouTube channel called Small Screen Network. This channel has a modest number of cocktail videos, and it introduced me to the likes of Jaime Boudreau, head barman and owner of Canon cocktail bar in Seattle.

Boudreau’s segment, “Raising the Bar”, helped me understand some bartending basics: types of ice for different cocktails, shaking, stirring, tasting each cocktail before sending it out to make sure I didn’t forget an ingredient, or mess up the balance. He also has other how-to videos that deal with smoking cocktails, barrel aging and carbonating. Carbonating a cocktail. Sounds cool, right? Well, it is. Having a delicious cocktail under carbon dioxide pressure brings hundreds of tiny bubbles cascading across your palate almost like Pop Rocks candy. Probably a poor analogy, but hopefully, the dots are starting to connect.

The morning after watching the carbonating video, I went to Amazon right away. I ordered an iSi culinary whip creamer (you can get one for about $85), and grabbed some CO2 chargers to go with it. A pack of 40 single cartridges will run you around $30 on Amazon. When they came in the mail, man, I was so excited I told everyone at work about it. I explained the process; I boasted why it could transform certain mundane drinks; I broke down how it would boost sales — like I knew what I was talking about. I didn’t. I’m confident that I annoyed everyone in a 50-foot radius. So, what was the first drink I carbonated? Distilled water. I put that baby under pressure, and marveled at how cool the aftermath was.

When I decided to mess around with cocktails, I wanted to start simple. So, a margarita it was. I added all of the ingredients into the iSi, sealed the top, and added a cartridge of CO2. I shook it up to ensure the gas was absorbed by the liquids, and then I poured it over ice. It was not good. What was wrong? I used the same recipe as always, so it took me a sec before my aha moment arrived — I forgot to compensate for the ice melting. You see, shaking and stirring a cocktail make these delicious drinks very cold, but the other, and most important, purpose ice serves is dilution. Realizing this, I remade the carbonated margarita but this time I threw in a half ounce of water with it. Just right.

If you’ve got an iSi or you’re thinking about getting one, I’ll break down how to throw a quick carbonated cocktail together. Before adding your ingredients to the whipper, make sure that the vessel is very cold; ice cold is even better. The same goes for your ingredients if you have the time. The colder your mix, the quicker and better carbonated it will be. Pour your mix into the whipper. If you’re making a drink that doesn’t already call for water (e.g., Gin Rickey), then you need to add about half an ounce of water per cocktail. Screw the top of the iSi onto its base and then add a CO2 charger. You’ll hear the gas enter the chamber, and as soon as the charger is empty, shake the whipper vigorously for seconds. Slowly pulling the handle at the top will let the excess gas out. You want to do this because there was air trapped inside the container before you sealed it. Yes, you are letting out some carbon dioxide, but that’s OK because you now want to add one more charger. When the gas fills the chamber, you’ll shake for another 10 seconds. Let your whipper sit under pressure for at least one minute. Slowly release the excess gas again by pulling the handle. Once all the gas is out, you can unscrew the top of the whipper. Pour your carbonated beverage into your glass slowly, or you’ll have a mess on your hands.

One of lesson I quickly learned when I put this into my bar program was that carbonating this way is not cost-efficient. If you haven’t already done the math, each soda charger costs around a dollar after shipping. Not only that, if you’re only making one drink at a time (you can do at least three per whipper) you’re wasting even more. Realizing this, I stopped carbonating cocktails at my bar, and pretty much only use it for carbonating my ginger beer (when the yeast didn’t do its job) and for cocktail foams. Yes, the whipper was originally intended for creams, foams and such. For these, you’ll need to order nitrogen chargers instead of CO2. I think the whipper is more suited for the home bartender. A pack of soda chargers will go a long way at your pad instead of using it at an establishment.

One of the ideas I had when conceptualizing what I wanted Reverie Cocktails to be was the ablility to carbonate cocktails and deliver them. So that’s what I did. A year ago, I had to relearn how to batch and carbonate drinks on a larger scale. (That’s a totally different article.) A ton of trial and error took place, followed by more error. Do you know what pouring out a messed-up 5-gallon batch of cocktails does to a man? Once I got my specs right, however, I was very pleased. You can try one of my many carbonated cocktails (Moscow Mule, seasonal Gin and TONYC, strawberry margarita) on draught around town at locations like The Rooster’s Wife, O’Donnell’s Pub and Neville’s. You probably didn’t know, but for the past two seasons, the Chappy’s Chiller at Chapman’s is my recreation on bubbles. Boy, I love strawberries.

I’ll leave you with a recipe I made when quickly carbonating at home (with my iSi) while getting ready for a wedding last summer. It contains mezcal and my TONYC syrup. Light, smoky and refreshing; this little gadget does wonders for waking up your taste buds.

Mezcal & TONYC

1 1/2 ounces Del Maguey Vida Mezcal

1/2 ounce TONYC

1/4 ounce simple syrup (2:1)

3 ounces distilled water

Carbonated Margarita

1 3/4 ounces Milagro Silver

1/2 ounce Cointreau

3/4 ounce fresh lime juice

1/2 ounce simple syrup (2:1)

1/2 ounce distilled water

(To carbonate, follow directions in column.)  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.

All Bottled Up

Poor man’s stained glass comes of age

By Susan McCrimmon  •  Photographs by Laura Gingerich

Are they trash recycled as art? Does your heart soar when one is spotted tucked back into some shrubbery? Does your nose wrinkle with distaste at the gaudy display? Love ’em or hate ’em, glass containers emptied of their various and sundry contents — liquid medicines, soft drinks, vinegar, beer, syrups, hard liquor — all have been transformed into an art form, the Pietà of salvage, the bottle tree.

A splash of color in the corner of the garden or a note of whimsy as the garden’s focal point, there is no denying a bottle tree’s impact. There are no formulas, no blueprints, no set rules governing construction or design. Bottle trees are limited only by one’s imagination, creativity or pocketbook. The “poor man’s stained glass” can be constructed from a variety of materials. The most current manifestation can be purchased and installed in short order. Metal “trees” made from rebar or similar material are placed in the desired location and the chosen bottles are inverted onto the tree “limbs” to complete the look. Easy peasy. The more traditional bottle trees take a little more effort. If one is lucky, a  dead cedar tree or crape myrtle, in the right location, works great. Cedars and crape myrtles are traditionally associated with bottle trees, although anything with good limb structure will work. Just trim the limbs as needed and place saved bottles as your artistic muse dictates.

Otherwise, a strategically positioned post or tree trunk may be your best option. Some people drill holes and pound wooden dowels at an angle into the post or tree trunk to support the bottles. I prefer to hammer in 20-penny nails. Relatively inexpensive, they can be easily moved for creative effect. To finish, simply add the collected bottles. They can be a wide variety of shapes and colors or just one specific type or one specific color. The possibilities are endless.

Bottle trees have spiritual, cultural and aesthetic significance in history and garden design. Glass was first discovered in northern Africa about 3500 B.C. Glass bottles appeared in Egypt and Mesopotamia around 1600 B.C. It’s possible that the Arabic folk tale of the genie in Aladdin’s lamp is the first instance of bottles being used to capture spirits, pre-dating the common conception of bottle trees originating in the Congo during the ninth century where empty glass bottles were placed around entryways in order to ensnare evil spirits which then would be destroyed by sunshine. Wind blowing across the bottles was the sound of spirits trapped inside moaning to be released. At the same time in the Congo, tree altars were erected to honor dead relatives. Plates attached to trees or sticks would be placed around the gravesite as a memorial. The plates were thought to resemble mushrooms. The  Congolese word for mushroom was similar to their word for love. See a mushroom . . . think of love. Earth from the gravesite would be placed in bottles and they would be hung by the neck from low limbs of a tree. These bottles would emit a tinkling sound in a breeze, possibly the beginning of wind chimes. The two concepts began  to merge into the bottle tree.

The color of choice for bottle trees has predominantly been cobalt blue. Cobalt blue is universally accepted for relaxing and calming the spirit and has historically been associated with spirits, ghosts and haints. Blue bottles have been found on shipwrecks from the Minoans dating as far back as 2700 B.C. The most widespread means of adding blue color to glass was using the element cobalt, thus the name. The term cobalt is Greek in origin by way of medieval Germany. When smelting silver, the cobalt metal embedded in the silver ore could interfere with the process and cause respiratory issues. As early as 1335, “Kobald” referred to gnomes or spirits afflicting the silver miners. The association stuck. The word for troublesome spirits became associated with the main way of getting blue color into glass that was then used in bottle trees to capture evil spirits. Cobalt blue was the preferred color of Voodoo tradition. This color of the sky and water was a crossroads of heaven and Earth, the living and the dead, and creative and destructive spirits. 

The esteemed Southern writer Eudora Welty believed that place is what makes a story appear real, because with place come associations, customs and feelings. In the short story “Livvie” she writes:

“Out front was a clean dirt yard with every vestige of grass patiently uprooted and the ground scarred in deep whorls from the strike of Livvie’s broom. Rose bushes with tiny blood-red roses blooming every month grew in threes on either side of the steps. On one side was a peach tree, on the other a pomegranate. 

“Then coming around up the path from the deep cut of the Natchez Trace below was a line of bare crape-myrtle trees with every branch of them ending in a colored bottle, green or blue. 

“There was no word that fell from Solomon’s lips to say what they were for, but Livvie knew that there could be a spell put in trees, and she was familiar from the time she was born with the way bottle trees kept evil spirits from coming into the house — by luring them inside the colored bottles, where they cannot get out again. 

“Solomon had made the bottle trees with his own hands over the nine years, in labor amounting to about a tree a year, and without a sign that he had any uneasiness in his heart, for he took as much pride in his precautions against spirits coming in the house as he took in the house, and sometimes in the sun the bottle trees looked prettier than the house did . . . ”

My first two bottle trees came about due to my mother’s illness. She was a died-in-the-wool Southern iced tea drinker. Every day. If there wasn’t a pitcher of tea already in the fridge, it was being brewed on the stove. One of the manifestations of her illness was that it altered my mother’s drinking habits. She no longer wanted tea but began to drink Coke. Not any Coke, mind you, but it had to be the ones in the 6-ounce bottles. We bought them by the case. I began to store the small greenish bottles with the distinctive red labels. When I thought enough had been gathered, I dug a hole near a large camellia bush, beat in the nails, and erected this rather odd memorial to my mother. During the many months of her illness, almost every evening was passed with friends and family murmuring words of support while sitting on Mom’s screened-in porch. At times, alcohol was the crutch used to help numb the pain. My second bottle tree was born as a memorial to those evenings. The current count is six . . . and growing. 

Regardless of your color choice, be it blue, green, brown, clear, red or any array of color choices for your garden addition, remember its long tradition of keeping bad things away. No one can feel bad from something that brings one such joy.  PS

Susan McCrimmon is a noted science geek, Suduko and crossword addict and is rumored to be besotted by words…and bottle trees.

Golden Night

A pop-up meal blossoms on a spring evening

By Casey Suglia   •   Photographs by John Gessner

5:45 p.m.

An outdoor fireplace crackles as a dozen guests mingle at the home of Jeff Kelly and Scott Harris. Tony Cross, of Reverie Cocktails, mixes a drink specifically designed for the night, the “Ágætis byrjun” — Icelandic for a good beginning. It’s a combination of Grüner Veltliner, a dry white wine from Austria, and Conniption Gin, a North Carolina-made “Navy strength” gin far more potent than your average bottle. Cold-pressed organic pineapple juice made at Nature’s Own, and smoked rosemary simple syrup, handmade by Cross himself, combine for a savory and sweet cocktail. Cross smacks the rosemary garnish to release the herb’s essence.

“The cocktail is local, as always,” he says. “It’s seasonal and springlike.”

The outdoor kitchen and bar of the home, located just blocks away from Broad Street in Southern Pines, serves as the perfect place for entertaining. “We host small dinner parties out here all time,” Harris says. But tonight is different. A mixture of people — some strangers, others friends for years — gather for a seasonal pop-up dinner created by Southern Whey’s Angela Sanchez and Chris Abbey, and Jen Curtis of Chef Warren’s.

“This was the brainchild of Jen and me,” Sanchez says. “It was a way for us to do something outside of the box and express our creativity away from our day jobs.”

6:15 p.m.

Sanchez sets out a tray of fresh, seasonal produce and cheese from Southern Whey — some local like Paradox Farm’s Cheese Louise spread. “The dinners all have different vibes or themes,” Sanchez says. “But our meals always have a local emphasis.” As the days lengthen and nights shorten, spring is the perfect time to match people and food. New blooms, new friendships, new beginnings.

6:30 p.m.

In the kitchen, Curtis plates the meal — a mix of local ingredients with fresh flavors hinting at the start of the season. The night’s menu is North Carolina pork belly served on a bed of locally grown grits from Anson Mills. A niçoise salad with North Carolina speckled trout, pickled okra and Amanda Curtis’ locally grown Heirloom Eggs.

“The meal is based on the coming of spring,” Curtis says. “There’s a Southern influence. We’re all transient here. Some of us have Northern roots, but we embrace the culture. Every tradition is identifiable, especially in food.”

“The meals are made so they’re easy to pass and share,” Sanchez says. “Guests are encouraged to sit wherever they want and make new friends.”

“People being together and sharing food always leads to something else,” Curtis adds.

7:00 p.m.

The guests gather around the table and talk about what’s new on Netflix, the wavering weather and the changing landscape of Southern Pines, as the sun sets behind them.

“The great thing about this backyard is that it feels like an oasis, but it also feels like we’re in Southern Pines,” Harris says. “It’s our own secluded space. We created our own environment here.”

Christin Daubert, a librarian, has attended all of Curtis’ and Sanchez’s pop-up meals, yet is constantly surprised by the place she and her husband, Justin, have called home for three years.

“I love this tiny little town,” Daubert says. “Every day I meet new people.”

7:20 p.m.

Dusk settles in and the cake — made with applesauce, rye flower, and dates with a pecan glaze — is served. Kelly and Harris’ yellow Labs, Lil’ Bit and Izzy, join the party for dessert, sneaking a bite of cake from some new friends of their own.

8:00 p.m.

The chill of the spring evening sets in the air, a reminder that the warm weather is still weeks away. The night feels young. The guests stand in front of the cracking outdoor fireplace, sip wine, and chat as if they’re new old friends.

“Spring is about renewal, change. We shed the past, move forward, and do that tonight with wine, conversation, and good food,” Sanchez says.   PS

Menu For A Southern Spring Night

Niçoise Salad with a Southern Twist –

Watercress, Belgian Endive,
Confit New Potatoes, Spring Radish,
Pickled Red Onion, Pickled Okra, Haricot Vert, Asparagus, Heirloom Eggs Soft Boiled Eggs and Smoked Speckled Trout
Citrus and Whole Grain Mustard Vinaigrette

*

NC Heritage Breed Ossabaw Pork Belly –

Star Anise, Juniper, Fenugreek and
Kombu Braised Pork Belly with
Anson Mills White Corn Grits,
Pork Braising Jus & Napa Cabbage,
Citrus and Mint Melee

*

Applesauce Cake –

Applesauce, Carolina Ground Rye Flour, 
Medjool Dates, Pecans with
Sorghum Caramel and
Marscapone Cheese whipped
with Local Honey

PinePitch

100 Years of Jugtown

For 100 years, the Owens family has owned and operated Jugtown Pottery, a working pottery and American craft shop. The story of its founding and evolution have been told by Stephen C. Compton in his new book, Jugtown Pottery: 1917 — 2017 A Century of Art and Craft in Clay, released by John F. Blair, publisher. On Saturday, April 22, the Owens family will host a day-long celebration of Jugtown’s history and the book that tells it.

The shop opens at 8:30 a.m. with new pottery pieces from the wood and gas kilns, as well as fine crafts from many artisans. Activities are planned for the whole day and will include demonstrations, a book reading and signing, a Q & A session with author Stephen Compton and the Owens family, live music by local performer Momma Molasses, and food vendors. Buggytown Coffee will be on site with a wonderful variety of coffees, teas and goodies. Jugtown Pottery is located at 330 Jugtown Road, Seagrove. For more information, call (910) 464-3266 or visit jugtown@mindspring.com.

Earthly Delights

For your gardening pleasure, local plant sales are offering an abundance of horticultural treasures, rain or shine:

Saturday, April 8, from 9 a.m.–1 p.m.

The Weymouth Center Spring Plant Sale offers perennials, shrubs, trees, groundcovers, vines and herbs, from the Weymouth Estate and members’ gardens. The Garden White Elephant Sale will feature containers, books, baskets, tools and treasures of all sorts. Proceeds go to the Weymouth Center Gardens, 555 E. Connecticut Ave., Southern Pines. For information call (910) 692-6261 or visit weymouthcenter.org.

Saturday, April 8, from 8 a.m.–12 p.m.

The Sandhills Horticultural Society Plant Sale includes perennials, woody plants and bulbs and will take place at the Steed Hall (new horticultural building) area of Sandhills Community College, 3395 Airport Road, Pinehurst. For information or to pre-order call (910) 695-3882.

Friday, April 21, 1–5 p.m. and Saturday, April 22, from 9 a.m.–12 p.m.

The Sandhills Community College Annual Bedding Plant Sale is selling annuals, herbs, tomatoes and pepper plants to benefit the student’s educational field trip. Order forms are available at the Ball Visitors Center or you can order by phone, (910) 695-3883/3882. Mail SCC-Landscape Gardening Dept., 3395 Airport Road, Pinehurst, NC 28374. Email johnsond@sandhills.edu or fax (910) 695-3894. Pre-order to get the best selection. The sale will take place at the Steed Hall (new horticultural building) area of Sandhills Community College, 3395 Airport Road, Pinehurst.

Saturday, April 22, from 10 a.m.–3 p.m.

The Pinehurst Garden Club Plant Sale features local favorites. Profits provide a scholarship for a Sandhills Community College horticulture student and contribute to area beautification projects. To place an order, please visit www.pinehurstgardenclub.com or contact Janis McCullough at (910) 420-2208. Pick up your plants or shop at the sale at Pinehurst Fire Dept. Station 91, 405 Magnolia Road, Pinehurst. Info: (910) 420-1777.

Marshmallow Madness

The ninth annual Peeps Diorama Contest is on, and the Southern Pines Public Library invites you to let your imagination and sweet tooth run wild in creating a diorama that stars the Peeps marshmallow chicks and rabbits in a scene from your favorite book. Or for the digitally inclined, create a “Peep Show” video.   

The contest, sponsored by the Friends of the Library, is open to all ages, and prizes will be awarded by age group for best in show. Entries are limited to one per contestant for both the diorama and video contests and must be received by 5 p.m., Sunday, April 30. Find rules and entry forms online at www.sppl.net or at the library, 170 W. Connecticut Ave., Southern Pines, open Monday — Thursday 10 a.m. to 7 p.m., Friday and Saturday 10 a.m. to 5 p.m., and Sunday 2 to 5 p.m. Call (910) 692-8235 for more information or visit the website.

A Walk Through History

From the ancient cave paintings of Lascaux to the street murals of today, people around the world throughout time have used murals to express themselves. Denise Drum Baker, an artist and recently retired professor of visual arts at Sandhills Community College, will talk about murals as a means of freedom of expression, social activism and propaganda. Baker’s lecture, “If These Walls Could Talk,” is part of the Fine Arts Lecture Series presented by the Arts Council of Moore County and Weymouth Center for the Arts & Humanities. The lecture will take place on Thursday, April 6, at 5:30 p.m. A wine-and-cheese reception with Baker will follow. Both events are at 555 E. Connecticut Ave., Southern Pines. Cost to members is $11, $16 to nonmembers. Info: (910) 692-6261 or weymouthcenter.org.

The Joy of Broadway

On Saturday, April 8, The Carolina Philharmonic presents a Broadway cabaret, in which Maestro David Michael Wolff will introduce you to two of Broadway’s exciting entertainers in an intimate musical event replete with all the character, color and drama of the legendary Great White Way. There will be an afternoon performance at 3 p.m. and an evening performance at 7:30. Both performances will be at Sandhills Community College’s Owens Auditorium, 3395 Airport Road, Pinehurst. Tickets range from $11 to $60 and are available at www.carolinaphil.org. For more information, call (910) 687-0287.

Spring Scavenger Hunt

The Southern Pines Public Library and the Arts Council of Moore County invite children between the ages 3 and 12 to take part in a fitness-themed scavenger hunt on Monday, April 17, at the Campbell House playground. The scavenger hunt clues will lead the youngsters through some fun obstacles that will get participants of all ages up and moving as they hula-hoop, skip rope and crab walk to find eggs, prizes and fun. Top off the afternoon with a make-your-own-ice cream sundae. It all starts at 3 p.m., rain or shine, and is free and open to the public. The Campbell House is located at 482 E. Connecticut Ave., Southern Pines. For more information, call (910) 692-2787 or (910) 910-692-2463.

Meet the Beatles … Again

On Saturday, April 22, Vision 4 Moore presents the amazing Beatles tribute band “The Return,” performing songs that cover two eras of Beatles music. The first set will highlight the Ed Sullivan era, with “I Want To Hold Your Hand,” “A Hard Day’s Night,” and other early hits. For the second set, the band will dress in uniforms from the Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band album to perform songs like “Hello, Goodbye,” “Revolution,” and “Hey Jude.” Tickets are $15–$35, and profits from this event will benefit MIRA Foundation USA, Caring Hearts for Kids of Moore, and Meals on Wheels of the Sandhills. The performance starts at 7:30 p.m. at Lee Auditorium, Pinecrest High School, 250 Voit Gilmore Lane, Southern Pines. For more information, call (910) 365-9890.

Live after 5

On Friday, April 14, The Legacy Motown Revue will take you back to the days of The Drifters, The Coasters, The Jackson 5, Earth Wind & Fire, The Temptations, and many more legendary icons. The concert is free for the entire family, and you can bring your own picnic basket, but no outside alcoholic beverages are permitted. Food trucks will be on-site with sandwiches, pizzas and desserts. Wine, beer, water and soft drinks will be available for purchase with the proceeds supporting local nonprofits. Don’t forget to bring your lawn chairs, blankets and dancing shoes! The music starts at 5:30 p.m. at Tufts Memorial Park, 1 Village Green Road W., Pinehurst. For more information, call (910) 295-2817 or visit vopnc.org.

A Russian Virtuoso in Concert

Classical guitarist Irina Kulikova was born in Chelyabinsk, Russia, where under the guidance of her mother, cellist Vinera Kulikova, she started developing her musicianship at an early age. At the age of 12, Kulikova began performing throughout Russia and abroad and graduated with distinction from the Mozarteum University in Salzburg (Austria), the Gnessins Academy in Moscow and the Conservatoire of Maastricht (The Netherlands). Treat yourself to this free concert on Tuesday, April 11, at 7 p.m. at Owens Auditorium, Sandhills Community College, 3395 Airport Road, Pinehurst. For more information, call Ryan Book at (910) 695-3828.

Mystery in Pieces

Here’s a clue — Walmart is not guilty

By Renee Phile

A few weeks ago, my bestie from high school, Caren, flew up from Orlando to spend the week with me. I have only seen her maybe four times since we graduated from high school nearly 16 years ago, so, as you can imagine, we wanted to fill our time with plenty of meaningful, friendship-building activities.

After she arrived at the airport, we grabbed a bite to eat and then headed to the store to pick up groceries for the week. We decided, as we were throwing salad, quinoa and other organic items (I mean ice cream and four types of cookies) into the cart, that we needed some type of bonding activity. A puzzle was just the answer. We spent around 45 minutes in the puzzle aisle examining every single one while the ice cream in our cart melted. Right before we walked out of the store puzzleless, because I didn’t want to tackle an under the sea scene and she didn’t care to work on a Star Wars one, the answer, once again, became very, very clear: a 750-piece with a pink and purple sky, with mountains, a river and trees in their autumn peak, all surrounding a white castle flashed right before our eyes.

Our eyes met and we knew.

This was the one.

That night we started construction on the border. Our border. She took the sky, and I took the foreground, which were those blasted, confusing swirls of autumn trees.

Caren’s job allows her to work from her computer, so she stayed home with our puzzle while I went to work the next day. Around 2 p.m., a nagging feeling appeared in my mind. I sent her a text:

Me: 2:14 You better not be working on the puzzle

Caren: 2:16 I’m not

Me: 2:17 Yes you are

Caren: 2:18 Only two pieces

Me: 2:18 Stop!

Caren: 2:19 OK, no more. I will wait for you

An hour later. . .

Me: 3:15 Stop working on the puzzle!

Caren: 3:17 Only two more pieces

Me: 3:20 Ugh! I’m leaving work. Be there soon. Leave the puzzle alone.

We worked on our puzzle on and off through afternoons and evenings. Occasionally, my boys would help, but they typically lost interest within a few minutes. As the days crept by, we realized something was off. We had yet to connect the sides with the border, and we just kept thinking we had not found the right piece or there were missing pieces. The bottom border was almost a wavy line. I had put the bottom together and, while it was just a nagging feeling, I truly thought maybe Walmart had sold us a defective puzzle.

“I think this piece goes here, but I just need some scissors to trim the edge, and then it will fit,” I said, halfway kidding. Caren exploded with laughter, and we continued to work on our project.

One night after a very exciting SCC basketball game, we plopped down at the kitchen table to work on our puzzle. Caren peered at the bottom border pieces and burst into hysterical laughter, like to the point where I thought something might be wrong with her.

“Are you kidding me?” she said. “These don’t fit! This one doesn’t fit! This one doesn’t fit! Renee! You have been forcing pieces together that don’t fit!” I was a bit embarrassed, but mostly relieved, even if the problem was me.  Laughing, she pulled apart the border. She connected some, reconnected others, the wavy border straightened, and the mystery was solved. Shew. No more blaming Walmart.

Caren left for home before the puzzle was finished. A bunch of trees were left, and they literally looked as if autumn had thrown up. The oranges, reds and yellows all swirled together near the bottom of the puzzle. I didn’t go back to it right away. One Friday night, though, I decided I wanted to finish the puzzle, glue it together, and frame it.  I spent an hour or so connecting piece by piece until it was finished. Every piece fit. I snapped a picture of the masterpiece and texted it to Caren.

The next morning, I woke up, and with coffee in hand, I admired my work. Suddenly, I noticed something very peculiar. There was a piece missing from the sky. Just one. Gone.

I figured one of my boys snagged it to be funny. I asked each of them, “Have you seen this piece?”

“Nope.” David said, “Maybe you should ask Kevin.”

“Kevin, have you seen this piece?”

“No! I promise! David probably knows!”

With each passing hour, my technique changed:

“I really want to frame this picture and hang it up. Could you please give me back the missing piece?”

“Look, I don’t care who took it or why. Just put it back. Have it back by the morning at 6 a.m. I don’t even need to know who stole it.”

“No one is leaving the house until the piece is back.”

“We aren’t eating again until the piece is back.”

“Stealing puzzle pieces from your mom’s puzzle and lying are sins.”

“GIVE IT BACK!”

No admissions. None.

I even questioned Bailey, my 2-year-old Rottweiler, and she claimed that she had no idea where the piece had gone.

Days later, the piece is still gone. No one will admit to it, and if it doesn’t appear by Friday, I’m just going to glue the puzzle and frame it with a hole in the sky. I’m done questioning the suspects. I don’t know what else to do.

I’m completely puzzled.   PS

Renee Phile teaches English composition at Sandhills Community College.