Hearing a Faint Voice

Testing a new outfit in an old spot

By Tom Bryant

. . . A Florida conservationist is a fellow who bought his waterfront property last week, and wants to make room for two or three friends and then shut the door forever. And meanwhile the people who knew what it was like twenty years ago are an ever-dwindling minority, a voice too faint to be heard.

— The Empty Copper Sea, by John D. MacDonald

Wind was blowing out of the east at about 20 knots. That, along with a low tide, had all but emptied Chokoloskee Bay of water except in the cuts and passes. Too windy to take out the canoe, and I was determined not to make a mistake like I did the day before, when I got caught on a falling tide with wind in my face. When I made it back to the dock, it felt as if I had paddled 5 miles, towing a barge. I don’t mind a little exercise, but that was too much.

Chokoloskee Park and Marina sits on about 10 or 15 acres, all of it packed elbow-to-elbow with campers like us and mobile homes made permanent in the back. We had the site up the hill from the launching ramp of the marina, and I was sitting outside our little Airstream, keeping out of the wind. Montana Bill, a long-timer, walked by on the way to the dock, looked over at me and said, “Tom, you get to say ‘hey’ to everybody right here.”

I laughed. “You’re right, Bill, if I get tired of folks I just go inside.” The site was narrow but a little bigger than the rest on the front row. This was our annual winter visit to Florida. We had budgeted two weeks for the island and we were just getting into a routine. The weather had been windy but warm, and the snowbirds who had been there a lot longer said we were blessed with the wind because the mosquitoes and no-see-ums had been murder before the breeze cranked up and blew them away.

Not wanting to take the canoe out, I ventured out on the dock with a new spinning outfit I received for Christmas. It was a combo from L.L. Bean, spinning rod and reel and fly rod and reel. I was excited about trying it out. The dock runs beside the launching ramp to a fish-cleaning station, hangs a right and goes in a semicircle back toward the marina, creating a space for boats to come into the slips available and tie up for the evening or for any length of stay. It’s a pretty efficient little harbor just right for small boats.  I, on the other hand, parked my canoe beside the Airstream.

There are a couple of benches placed strategically along the dock walkway where folks could rest and watch wildlife or maybe sunsets, which are magnificent over the Ten Thousand Islands. I noticed an old fellow sitting at the bench closest to the cleaning station, so I moved down toward the north end of the dock so I wouldn’t accidentally hook him if the wind blew the lure his way. He was a weathered old guy, wearing a cut-off sweatshirt, denim shorts, and a canvas hat that looked as if it had done duty in the big war, World War I, I mean. He had a pipe that he would repack with tobacco from time to time. I hadn’t smelled a pipe smoker in many years. The wind blew me a whiff every now and then, and it brought back memories of the days when I used to smoke a pipe before I gave up tobacco entirely. To me, it wasn’t unpleasant the way cigarettes and cigars are.

I tossed the light lure out as far as I could, more just learning the touch of the spinning outfit than hoping to catch something. A stiff breeze at my back helped, but I still couldn’t reach deep water like I wanted. I noticed the old guy had moved to the bench nearer to where I was.

“You’re gonna have to put more weight on that leader if you want to get where the fish are,” he said, chuckling.

“You’re right, but I’m more interested in how this little thing works than actually catching a fish. It’s new to me and I’m impressed with it so far.”

“I bet it would be fun with a 3- or 4-pound trout on it.”

“Mister, I haven’t caught a 3- or 4-pound trout in quite a while. I don’t know if they grow ’em that big anymore.”

“It would break your heart to see the fish pulled out of these waters 20 years ago,” he said. “A 3-pound trout was common, and pompano and snook and red fish and sheepshead. You name it, the fishing was so good you had to hide your bait or they would jump in the boat.”

I laughed and said, “I’ve heard that one before, old-timer. Believe it or not, I used to fish these waters with my granddad over 60 years ago, and I can relate to what you’re saying.”

“Well, I’ve got some years on you, and I can remember that before that causeway and bridge were built, nobody fished off Chokoloskee Island except the locals. Most everybody put in at Everglades City, what few came here to fish. The rich folks fished out of the Rod and Gun Club. Met Hemingway there one time. He gave me a dollar to haul in his suitcase.”

He was looking to the north where the causeway crossed the bay to the island. The folks from the highway department were hard at work replacing the bridge located in the middle, and they had a way to go before they finished. They were working one lane at a time and had an automatic light controlling traffic.

“Yep,” he said, “before they dug the ditch to build that road and bridge, the flow of the bay coming out of the Glades was a lot better. Some folks say the reason the fishing is not as good as it used to be is because of that cotton-picking’ road.”

He knocked tobacco ash out of his pipe, refilled it, and lit it again. He stood, shuffling a bit to get his feet working. “Well, anyhow, ain’t nothing the way it used to be. Good luck, fellow. I hope you catch some fish. My daughter is supposed to pick me up in a few minutes. She brings me over here every now and then so I can check out the fishing. Maybe I’ll see you again.”

We said our goodbyes, and I watched as he slowly made his way around the dock to the parking lot. He’s right, I thought. Times have changed, not always for the better.

In the distance I could hear the pounding as the big diesel pile driver worked on the bridge.  PS

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

A Rarity Nevermore

The common raven is appearing more frequently in these parts

By Susan Campbell

Although the raven has, for centuries, been one of the most widely recognized and intriguing birds in the Northern Hemisphere, it is uncommon to see one in Piedmont North Carolina. And in the Sandhills, the common raven is a real rarity — a situation that is likely to change in the not-too-distant future.

By contrast, the raven’s close cousin, the crow, loves calling Piedmont North Carolina home. Distinguishing between ravens and crows is really pretty easy. To begin with, ravens are massive, jet-black birds half again as large as our crows. And unlike the constant and abrasive “cawing” that comes from crows, the raven’s call is a shorter, harsh or gurgling croak that, not surprisingly, carries a long way. It is, in fact, this distinctive vocalization that often gives them away, especially in remote areas.

Ravens also have heavy, serrated bills and long wedge-shaped tails. And while crows can be seen swooping from tree to tree in gangs, ravens seem specifically designed for altitude. Since they typically range across both large forests and open expanses, you will often see them soaring effortlessly high in the sky.

In our state, common ravens breed in the Appalachians and can be found roaming the mountains for miles around. But for several decades now the species has been moving farther east across the foothills, no doubt a range expansion facilitated by human activity. Ravens, as well as their other corvid cousin, are opportunistic feeders. Roadkill is certainly a major and easy source of food — as are landfills, parks and campgrounds. Even pet food bowls and bird feeders attract their attention. Some clever birds have learned that gunshots during hunting season may mean a meal in the not too distant future. And farmers have learned that ravens aren’t reluctant to go after eggs, chicks and even newborn small animals such as lambs.

These birds are exceptionally intelligent and are, arguably, the smartest of all birds found in North America. Not only do they readily figure out where to find their next meal, they will work in pairs to acquire certain types of food. One individual will divert the attention of a nesting adult bird while its mate steals an egg or nestling. Common ravens can be destructive in their search for food, tearing into campers’ tents and other manmade structures, and, in numbers, can foul sensitive equipment. In fact, ravens have a predilection for causing power outages by pulling the insulation off wire and picking electrical insulators. They inevitably become a nuisance if they linger too often or too long around any human habitation, a problem given how long-lived the birds are and that they are also nonmigratory.

It is both a surprise and a treat when I spot one of these impressive birds
in the Piedmont. One conspicuous individual ranges around the
Red Oak Brewery in Whitsett where I’m part of a project to encourage hummingbirds. I have also seen ravens flying high above U.S. Route 1 around Sanford and one sitting on a guardrail along N.C. Highway 54. I would not be surprised if a pair is breeding in the area along the Deep River. At these lower elevations, riverside bluffs resemble the cliff habitats where common ravens usually nest. They make ledges on tall buildings their home as well. Ravens are clearly adaptable and perfectly happy to live alongside us — more and more of them all of the time. PS

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

When Snacks Go Wrong

Where there’s a will, there’s always someone sneakily grabbing the powdery doughnut holes

By Renee Phile

Even though my boys are 13 and 8, most of the time I go grocery shopping without them, because, well, it’s just less stressful that way.  However, if they do go with me, I make sure to fill them up with snacks before we reach the store, which usually means rummaging under the seats of the car to see if there are any old granola bars or maybe some peanuts or dried bananas leftover from some trail mix. If they don’t have something to eat before grocery shopping, we become the owners of aisle 5.

When they were younger, a mysterious transformation would happen as soon as they crossed the threshold of the automatic doors.  In those short steps, they would become whiny, irrational, obnoxious little beings. 

Sometimes random items would appear in my cart. Organic blueberry Pop Tarts? (Where did these come from? We get the regular kind.) Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups? (Once these entered the cart, I couldn’t put them back on the shelf because of my own addiction.) Depends?  (Not yet.) My boys thought they were funny. The conveyor belt was one embarrassment after another. “Oh, we didn’t need this, nor this, how the hell did this get in here? I’m so sorry . . . ”

If we went to a store where there were, God forbid, samples, my kids would tear off in opposite directions and fill up on turkey, cheese, cookies, whatever, as though they hadn’t eaten in days. 

I found myself saying the following over and over on any given grocery store trip:

“Stop touching the cereal boxes.”

“Get out from under the coffee display!”

“OMG!  Get OUT of the freezer!”

“Stop dancing!”

“Watch where you’re going!”

“No, you cannot open the string cheese right now.”

Anyway, today they are old enough to behave themselves in the grocery store.

Or so I thought.

Though I’d already been to the store, I had forgotten the bread, the eggs, the Cinnamon Toast Crunch, the Cheetos, all the staples. So, after I picked up the boys from school, I said, “We’re gonna run in Food Lion real quick. You can stay in the car if you want.” No, they both wanted to go in with me. “We’re gonna be quick,” I said at least nine times. As we walked through the produce aisle, I tossed some oranges into the cart. As I turned my back to examine an avocado, I saw David sauntering off texting and Kevin wandering the other way.

They’d already struck. I peered into the cart and noticed some peculiar items. Cheese puffs. White powdery doughnut holes. An entire coffee cake. How mysterious. I took the foreign items out of my cart and placed them on a shelf, not where they go. Sorry, Food Lion.

“Wait!” Kevin exclaimed, appearing from . . . somewhere. “Those are my snacks for school!”

“No, they aren’t. I already got snacks.”

“But I want these snacks!”

“No.”

“Why not?”

I heard my mother’s voice, “Because I said so.”

David, at this point, reappeared in time to chime in, “Because Mommy says so, Kevin.”

With no warning whatsoever, Kevin flung himself on the floor, right in between the pickles and the salad dressing, sprawling across the entire aisle.

“Get up, Kevin,” I said.

He didn’t move. 

“I can’t. I’m so mad.”

I was simply not sure what to do. People were starting to watch us, and my face felt hot. I breathed, like I had learned in yoga class. Then I thought, fine. I did the only thing I knew to do. I walked away, down the aisle, through the dressings and ketchup and mustard. David looked at me, puzzled. No one was going to kidnap Kevin. They would return him faster than week-old meat.

“Aren’t we gonna get Kevin?”

“He’s fine.”

We strolled through the aisles. I suddenly needed more items than I initially thought. Funny how that happens.

A few aisles later, Kevin, scowling, arms crossed, shuffled up behind us.

“Hi Kevin!” David said cheerily, to annoy.

Kevin glared at David.

We maneuvered down the aisles, picked up the eggs, the Cinnamon Toast Crunch.

“I’m sorry,” Kevin mumbled to me.

“What are you sorry for?”

“For my attitude. But I really wanted a snack for school.”

“I forgive you.”

“Then do we have to talk about it?” he sighed.

“No.”

I dropped some yogurt into the cart.

“OK, both of you go grab one snack each for your lunches this week.”

“Oh yes!” Kevin exclaimed and dashed down the chip aisle, David close behind him.

Kevin grabbed Cheetos and David, Cool Ranch Doritos.

I was so incredibly done. And no one had even climbed into the freezer.  PS

Renee Phile  loves being a mom, even if it doesn’t show at certain moments.

ETA: Early

When on time is too late

By Deborah Salomon

Why am I always early?

My mother used to say, “If Deb is late don’t call the police . . . call the undertaker.”

I cannot ever remember missing a deadline or a flight except when the plane I’m on is delayed and I miss the connection. Then my tummy does more somersaults than an Olympic gymnast. I pay bills the day they arrive. My taxes are done a month in advance but I mail the checks in April because I don’t like how the government spends my money.

That’s me, sitting in the car outside an office or house, not wanting to arrive for an appointment ahead of time.

Exception: the dentist. I get there early on purpose because they have great magazines.

I purposely overestimate travel time, especially rush hour at the Pinehurst Traffic Circle, where a five-minute wait amid lovely scenery turns people who have never dealt with Boston, New York, Charlotte or Atlanta into whiners.

This is not something I’m pleased about — nor do I seek a cure. But, since nothing comes from nothing, before the fat lady sings I might investigate.

Blame my name. Deborah, in Hebrew, means bee. Bees are characterized as busy. You don’t see bees sleeping late, making (up) excuses or procrastinating.

Sleeping late? People frequently reply that my computer clock is off when emails arrive with a 4:45 a.m. time stamp. Lucky-the-cat is only partly responsible. The habit of early rising began in middle school. My father traveled for business, weeks at a time, and my mother had vague health issues which kept her abed until at least 8. Fine with me. I enjoyed studying for a test in the dark and quiet, ironing a blouse, eating whatever I pleased for breakfast while watching the new Today show. By 8:15 I was waiting on the corner for my ride. The only problem — super-early risers want lunch at 10 a.m.

This carried over to college, much to my roommate’s dismay. We parted after a semester, but the habit continued to motherhood, when that witching pre-dawn hour was spent drinking coffee, folding laundry, skimming the newspaper, even cooking.

“Why do I smell onions at 7 a.m.?” my son would ask.

As a full-time reporter I ran 3 miles, stopped at the supermarket, baked a coffeecake or muffins and still got to work before 9.  When I visit my grandsons in Canada the return flight leaves at 6 a.m., which means getting to the airport at 4 a.m., which means leaving the apartment at 3:30 a.m., which means getting up to shower and eat breakfast at 2:30 a.m., which means going to bed at 8 p.m. Wary of alarm clocks, I wake every 20 minutes or so to check the time.

I respectfully disbelieve in astrology, but learned that Capricorns “like to plan and rehearse everything in advance.” Hmm.

This chronic earlybirditis has not waned with age, except now I indulge in an afternoon nap.

So far, nothing adequately explains the pathology. There’s no such thing as being “fashionably early” either, although I read that fashionably late people are insecure. Or the opposite. Marilyn Monroe used to keep film crews waiting for hours. The Clintons, chronically behind schedule, joke about it.

Not that any of this really matters, except for one disaster. I was invited to a dinner party by a very chi-chi hostess. The invitation said 7 p.m. I drove up 10 minutes early but sat outside pretending to talk on my phone. When I rang the bell at seven sharp she came bustling to the door, hair in giant rollers, smoke billowing from her ears.

“A bit early, aren’t you, dear?”

“You said 7,” I murmured.

“That means 7:30,” she hissed.

The last guest arrived around 8.

Needless to say, I never got invited back.

Surely there are worse things than not being first in line for hot theater tickets. Or missing a flight. Or showing up late for a job interview. Or arriving with a crucial deposit after the bank closes.

I wouldn’t know. I’m that bird up front, feasting on the worm.  PS

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

Dark Night

A simple boat trip can test a man’s pride and his night vision

By Clyde Edgerton

One evening a few weeks ago, I left Gibby’s Dock and Dine in Carolina Beach, just off the Intracoastal Waterway. It was 7 p.m., dark, and I was in a motorboat alone, heading 15 miles north to a friend’s dock on Wrightsville Beach. My wife and daughter had just left Gibby’s in an automobile and would be waiting for me at my destination. I was hoping to impress my wife (and myself) with how quickly I could get to Wrightsville Beach. I’d planned to leave before dark but time had slipped away.

Well, yes, we could have left the boat and come back for it the next day. But . . . come on, a little night trip up the waterway? What could be difficult about that? (Not being able to see, for one thing, Captain Ahab.)

I’d be heading north, right? With land to my right and left? And surely there’d be enough light to see ahead in the dark — not far, but far enough. It’s a straight shot. I’d simply stay in the middle of the waterway and thus avoid the crab pot buoys. The channel markers would all have red and green lights, right? It wouldn’t be that dark.

Before I know it, I’m disoriented. Yes, there are house lights off to my left, to the west along the waterway, and I’m confident that there is an eastern bank to my right — somewhere — but the rest of the world is inked over. Inked in, inked out. Then I see a green light far ahead — a channel marker. It seems extraordinarily far away. The water is less calm than I’d remembered on the trip down that afternoon in full, bright, beautiful daylight.

And coming toward me, from way far up north, is a light brighter than any train headlight I’ve ever seen. Or is it stationary? And it’s not just one bright light — it’s a cluster of lights together like a sunflower, like a white, nighttime sun. It has killed any night vision I might have. I put my hand up to block it out.

I calmly think about the worst thing that can happen.

I can die. But worse: I may have to confess stupidity.

Boat owners know about the safety cord running from near the throttle that you can clip to a belt loop so that if you fall overboard the attached cord will pull a small button off a small knob and cause the boat engine to cut off so that the boat will not run away. I’ve never hooked it up.

I hook it up.

Where the hell am I? . . . I mean, in reference to the shoreline?

I turn loose the wheel, pull out my phone, keeping a hand up to block the bright light. I touch to open the Maps app with GPS but my screen is blocked by a white box asking if I want to join any of several Wi-Fi servers. I cancel that, worried again about my night vision, then I see the waterway on the iPhone screen and a small blue dot that is my position. Aha. I look up. What? At my one o’clock position is a string of lights sitting on the water. . . is that a very long, low boat? How could that be?

It’s a boat dock! How can it be ahead and to my right on the barrier island side? The shore with houses is to my left. There are no boat docks on the back side of Masonboro Island. I turn the boat to get around this phantom dock. I’ve drifted way left it seems. How? What’s going on?

The blinding bright light is getting larger. And higher. Yep, it’s coming for me. I need to be to the right of that dock, and to the right of the blinding bright light headed my way, but how? And what about the crab pot buoys? No way I can see one of those. I should be out in the middle. I check the blue dot on my map. Confirmed. I’m too far left, or west. I change my heading significantly to the right, east.

Suddenly, I remember that the satellite choice on the GPS should show photos of the boat docks. The plain map doesn’t. Another Wi-Fi request blocks my screen. My left hand blocks the blinding bright light. I have no night vision. I grab the wheel and find the satellite map. I press it and wait. The screen slowly fills in.

Ah, there’s my little blue dot in the Intracoastal Waterway. The satellite map shows shallow and deep areas in the water. Cool. It shows boat docks. Cool. If I just had a flashlight to see ahead in the water. Is there one on the boat somewhere?

Or on the iPhone? Yes. I turn it on. Better to have an iPhone than a Swiss Army knife right now. I hold the phone high overhead to try to light the water over the bow and watch the map. My left hand is back up, blocking the bright ship headlight. I lean against the wheel to steer with my body somehow. Lo and behold about 50 feet straight ahead is a green reflecting square — a channel marker! The iPhone flashlight is not lighting the water ahead but is reflecting off a channel marker.

I see on the satellite map that I’ve drifted right — far right.

Most boats have what’s called a whisky compass, an erratic compass that floats in liquid, and is only roughly accurate, especially if there are waves. By this compass, I see that I’m heading almost north and need a 10-degree correction or so to the west.

That blinding light. It’s closer. And closer. I can see it’s a very large boat. Will it miss me? I maneuver to the right. It passes to my left. It’s gigantic. It has no thoughts of slowing down. The wake tosses me way up and way down. I’m in idle, waiting for the wake to pass. I say ugly things.

The wake recedes, and I slowly crawl north — checking satellite map, flashlight up, watching for channel markers, etc.

Nearing my destination, I realize I have no clear landmarks for my friend’s dock. My friend’s pier is one among many exactly like it. I’ve never docked there (or anywhere else) at night.

My wife and daughter are supposed to be waiting at that dock. They’ve probably been there a while. I phone them. My daughter answers. “What’s taking you so long, Daddy?”

“Oh, nothing. Just taking my time. No need to rush. Nice night. Is Mama there?”

“Sure. Here she is.”

My wife asks, “What’s taking so long, Honey?”

“Oh, nothing. Just taking my time. Nice night out here. Need to be careful, though. Would you do me a favor?”

“Sure.”

“Are you on the dock?”

“Yes.”

“Would you turn on your phone flashlight and wave it over your head? With the light shining out toward me?”

“Sure. Where are you?”

“I’m not altogether sure . . . would you turn on the flashlight and wave it over your head?”

“OK.”

“Oh, good,” I say. “I see you.” Then I realize she can’t hear me because her phone is over her head, going back and forth in the air.

In a few minutes, I dock safely, step off the boat, and my wife asks, “How was the trip?”

“Fine,” I say, holding onto a single sliver of pride deep in my soul. I don’t know where to start.

“Wasn’t it pretty dark out there?”

“Damn dark.”  PS

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

How Green Is My Garlic?

Searching out a savory seasonal specialty

By Jan Leitschuh

There is a rare treat available this time of year, and it is green garlic. You may have to hunt it down, but if you’re lucky enough to find it, it can be a savory treasure.

At least one local chef seeks it out. Chef Karen Littlefield, of Filly & Colt’s Restaurant at Little River Golf and Resort, says, “We use it in the restaurant like scallions and sauté it for a milder-than-onion flavor. The (green garlic) dressing is always a big hit.” (See her recipe below.)

You’ll find green garlic only in the spring, and generally only at the local level. Scout out farmers markets, or check your community supported agriculture box for a slim green, stalk-y item with a pale white bottom. Green garlic joins the spring parade of other healthy alliums like scallions and green onions, leeks, green shallots and such. It’s one of our earliest fresh produce options locally.

Why hunt down this odd, strappy-leaved stalk every spring?

Green garlic is prized for its fresh, spring-tonic, garlic flavor. You don’t see it often in grocery stores because green garlic is the immature form of your common garlic, before the bulb has time to mature. As it matures, the onion-like bulb at the bottom separates into individual cloves that then grow in volume. When a farmer picks his or her crop before maturity, there is less to harvest so, naturally, they might want to carry a crop to fruition.

However, exceptions are made because produce hunger is strong in the spring, and our local producers aim to please, prizing good relations with their Sandhills neighbors. This time of year, people want fresh flavors, and the mild allium taste of green garlic does just that.

Whether you have in mind something simple like chopping your green garlic to zing up scrambled eggs or quiche, or something fancier like Angel Hair Pasta with Shrimp and Green Garlic in Cream Sauce, preparation is similar.

Select slender, young and tender stalks. Green garlic still has its green “food factory” stalk attached. Much like green onions, all parts of the plant are edible. The topmost green is a bit chewy, so cut off over half of the green tops for optimum texture and garlic flavor. The tougher tops can go to flavor soups, to be fished out before consumption, much like a bay leaf — your grandma would have understood this thrift.

Chef Littlefield’s popular green garlic dressing starts with a stalk of green garlic, trimmed with about three inches of green stalk included, then rinsed, then rough-chopped. She adds a cup of vegetable oil (such as olive), and gives it a whirl in the food processor until a pale green liquid emerges. Finally, she adds 1/4 cup of vinegar, 1/4 cup of orange or lemon juice, a tablespoon of sugar, a tablespoon of either whole oregano or herbes de Provence, and a tablespoon of grated citrus rind, reblends, then salts and peppers to taste. Toss with baby lettuce and spinach leaves, and savor the season.

Green garlic can be used anywhere you’d use regular garlic. But the extra green bits give the resulting dish a verdant, fresh-spring aspect. It won’t be as intense as regular garlic.

According to the respected website World’s Healthiest Foods, “Garlic has long been recognized for its potential to reduce our risk of certain cancers,” and “The benefits of garlic intake for decreased risk of cardiovascular disease have now been extended to each of the following conditions: heart attack, coronary artery disease, high blood pressure, and atherosclerosis. The everyday flexibility of our blood vessels has been shown to improve with intake of garlic, and the likelihood of blood vessel damage due to chronic excessive inflammation has been shown to decrease when this allium vegetable in consumed on a regular basis.”

In that case, a little medicinal nosh might be in order . . .

Green Garlic Dip

2 cups cooked or canned garbanzo beans

1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice

Green garlic with 3 inches of stalk, chopped

1/4 cup chicken or vegetable  broth

3 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil

Sea salt and pepper to taste

Serve with sugar snap peas, cut cukes, carrots or celery for a fully
healthful snack.

What is it about spring that makes us crave its fresh flavors? Is it that long winter of heavy stews and hearty meals that sets us on a course for lighter fare?

Below is a wonderful springtime dish using green garlic and other products of the spring. With company coming, busy cooks can do the peas and the quinoa a few days ahead (though the peas will lose much of their sweetness) and keep in the refrigerator.

Quinoa Pilaf with Green Garlic and Sweet Peas

(From The New York Times)

3/4 cup shelled fresh peas (1 pound unshelled)

2/3 cup quinoa

Sea salt to taste

2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil

1 leek, white and light green part only, halved, cleaned of sand and sliced thin

1 bulb green garlic, tough stalk cut away and papery shells removed, sliced thin

1 tablespoon chopped fresh mint

1 tablespoon chopped chives

2 tablespoons chopped fresh parsley, or a combination of parsley and tarragon

Freshly ground pepper

Bring a medium pot of lightly salted water to a boil and add the peas. Turn the heat down to medium and simmer until tender, 4 to 10 minutes, depending on the size and freshness. Put a strainer over a bowl and drain the peas. Measure out 2 cups of the cooking water (add fresh water if necessary), return to the pot, add salt to taste, bring to a boil and add the quinoa. When the water comes back to a boil, cover, reduce the heat and simmer 15 minutes, or until the quinoa is tender and, in the case of white quinoa, displays a thread. Remove from the heat, drain through a strainer and return to the pot. Cover the pot with a clean dishtowel and return the lid. Let sit 15 minutes.

Heat 1 tablespoon of the olive oil over medium-low heat in a wide, heavy skillet and add the leek and sliced green garlic. Add a generous pinch of salt and cook, stirring, until tender, fragrant and translucent, 3-to-5 minutes. Add the quinoa and peas to the pan and toss together with the remaining olive oil for about 2 minutes, taking care not to mash the peas. Add the fresh herbs, grind in some pepper, taste and adjust seasoning, and serve.

Yield: 4 to 6 servings.

Advance preparation: You can cook the peas and the quinoa up to a few days ahead (though the peas will lose much of their sweetness) and keep in the refrigerator.  PS

Jan Leitschuh is a local gardener, avid eater of fresh produce and co-founder of the Sandhills Farm to Table Cooperative.

M & M

The sweetness of life

By Joyce Reehling

All people have a little Sesame Street in their lives. The letter M is big for me.

March and May are the birth months of two of my favorite people, nieces born three years apart. Darling Husband and I decided not to become parents, but being an auntie and an uncle is a perfect fit. In March of ’93 my sister, Mandy, gave birth to her first child. Her husband, Scott, was pale as Mandy struggled with a difficult labor and a strange ob/gyn who seemed to think that unlimited hours of hell were a good idea. Sara came into this world after a C-section when both she and Mandy were worn down and close to danger points.

There was this beautiful little girl with a head full of dark hair, destined to go blonde in a blink. She was a big baby and easy to find in the nursery window, gorgeous and delightful. Mandy was exhausted and Scott was amazed by it all. I could not get enough of her, not even when she went into the dreaded colic that lasted eight weeks. The crying was heart-wrenching, as if she was in the tortures of the damned. My mom, who lived nearby, pitched in, helping for days on end, lifting some of the load off the new mommy. March had always been the birthday month of “the twins” — my sister and me — but now it became Sara’s month and my joy.

Three years later the news came that Mandy and Scott were pregnant again, and this time Mandy honored me with a request to be with her at the hospital. Scott traveled a great deal for work and was worried he couldn’t guarantee he’d be there in time for the May delivery. I was overjoyed and arrived several days prior to the expected date.

Mandy went into a tailspin of frenetic nesting, possessed with the notion of washing floors and cleaning gutters and such crazy things. I understand that is not unusual but one does have limits. I said in no uncertain terms that if she wanted a floor scrubbed that I would do it for her and that she was not to drop to her knees on any pretext. Instead, off we went to find a coat for 3-year-old Sara.

While Mandy and Sara prowled the aisles of BonTon I was looking at baby clothes for the fun of it — although I swear by consignment clothes, since no baby wears anything long enough to warrant new clothes for the next one. All of a sudden I hear my name called in a plaintive moan. Mandy had gone down on one knee to button up Sara’s coat-to-be and could not rise again. Like an Amish barn raising, with a little force and a lot of comforting, up she came.

The next morning we got up at 5 a.m. and went to the maternity wing. Thus began a day of walking the halls, Mandy’s grip nearly breaking my arm as I steadied her, to help labor do what labor does.

Monitors were attached to her belly and the wait began. Bless his heart, Scott made it. He walked in around noon, having driven for many hours to get there. Feeling a bit peckish, he decided to go to the hospital dining area and returned a half hour later to announce that they had great burgers and a fantastic view of the Susquehanna River. The only thing missing was the toothpick. I saw a look on Mandy’s face I had never seen before, a quiet kind of rage. A look with a strength of focus that would make a NASA astronaut seem flaky. A look that was the very definition of why handgun legislation is contemplated.

Around 3:30 all hell broke loose, nurses running in, a doctor suddenly breaking the foot of the bed down, and in minutes Emma’s head was visible. With one push out came those little shoulders, followed quickly by her whole self. Scottie and I burst into cartoon tears, the kind that fly straight out of your eyes. All we could say was: “Emma is here. Emma is here.” Joy filled the room.

She was passed to Mandy, then Scott and then me. May joined March. Twenty-one years later we are attending her college graduation. In May.  PS

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

Throwing a Conniption

A delicious spirit in search of a local shelf life

By Tony Cross

In previous columns, I’ve been subtle here and there with my jabs at our local ABC stores. Yes, it’s hard to get certain artisan spirits and liqueurs; yes, it’s unfortunate that other ABC stores in surrounding counties have great selections that we (somehow) aren’t privy to; and yes, it’s really annoying that if I want to grab a bottle of Luxardo Maraschino Liqueur, I’ll need to buy six to 12 bottles as a minimum order. This month I’m going to go deep. I originally planned on just showcasing a local distillery that makes phenomenal gin. However, after chatting with the owners/distillers about why I never see them in my Southern Pines ABC store, I decided to intertwine the two.

I first became familiar with Durham Distillery’s Conniption gin during the first quarter of last year. What struck me at first was how balanced the botanicals were with the citrus. In short, a fantastic gin for sure, but what really amazed me was how this was produced 75 minutes away from the Sandhills. This might not be a big deal to some, but lately there have been some great distillers popping up in our vicinity. I used the Conniption gin for lots of specialty drinks last year. Everyone loved the gin, and many were surprised to hear of its origin. I was so busy with work that I never got a chance to meet Lee and Melissa Katrincic, take a tour of their distillery to see how they operate, and chat about their gin and liqueurs (they also make Damn Fine Chocolate, Coffee and Mocha Liqueurs). I finally made it up there in March, and we had a lot to talk about.

Out of the 100 counties in North Carolina, Moore County ranks ninth for gin sales. Pretty good. I’d think that a local gin distiller would have an easy time getting into one of our ABCs, but that’s not the case. “Not many consumers know this, but in North Carolina, we need to talk to one person (the ABC general manager) in every North Carolina county to ask them if they will carry our products (and they can say no). In Virginia, which is also a control state, if they accept your products you can automatically be in every ABC store statewide if you wish,” Lee says. “It is an uphill battle in North Carolina because we cannot just pitch our products to someone else down the street. If Food Lion did not want to carry my product, I could go to Harris Teeter, for example. We met with Moore County to present our products but they will not carry our gins.” Though they are not on local shelves, I was able to order Conniption through Nature’s Own. It was a six bottle minimum order.

OK, so we have two scientists (I didn’t mention that both Melissa and Lee are freaking scientists and Lee still works as one when he’s not crafting gin) who live an hour away, and make delicious gin. Our Moore County ABC outlet isn’t sold. But here’s a list of awards Melissa and Lee have won:

Durham Distillery’s awards include:

No. 2 Craft Gin Distillery in the U.S. (2016, 10 Best USA Today)

North Carolina Gin Distillery of the Year (2016, New York International Spirits Competition)

— North Carolina Distillery of the Year (2015, New York International Spirits Competition)

Their Conniption Gin has won:

— Gold Medal: 2016 The Fifty Best Gin competition

— Silver Medal: 2016 San Francisco Spirits Competition

— Silver Medal: 2016 New York International Spirits Competition

— Silver Medal of 89 Points: 2016 Tastings.com Beverage Testing Institute

— Silver Medal: 2016 American Craft Spirits Association

— Silver Medal: 2015 TheGinIsIn.com

— 89 Points: 2016 Wine Enthusiast magazine

— Bronze Medal: 2016 New York World Wine & Spirits Competition

Their Conniption Navy Strength Gin
has won:

— Best in Show Gin, Best in Show Unaged White Spirit and Double Gold Medal: 2016 New York World Wine & Spirits Competition

— Platinum Medal of 96 Points: 2016 Tastings.com Beverage Testing Institute

— Gold Medal: 2016 San Francisco Spirits Competition

— Gold Medal: 2016 The Fifty Best gin competition

— Silver Medal: 2015 New York International Spirits Competition

— Silver Medal: 2016 TheGinIsIn.com

— Bronze Medal: 2016 American Craft Spirits Association

That’s an impressive list, I think you’ll agree — I just wish our local distributors would get onboard with an outstanding hand-made spirit locals will love. Talk about “buying local!”

So, what are Lee and Melissa up to? Creating new products, of course. Cucumber vodka is the next big thing coming out of Durham Distillery. It’s going to be a hit; I’ve tried it and I can’t wait to get more of it. That thing’s good. “Many specialty vodkas on the market are artificially flavored, and the products that do use natural flavors typically use extracts,” Lee says. “What we are doing here is taking hand-selected fresh cucumbers and distilling them at room temperature in small 5-gallon batches in our vacuum still (rotary evaporator). This preserves the cucumber’s delicate flavor, producing a super clean and crisp vodka without applying heat. A large proportion of our Conniption American Dry gin has this cucumber vodka in it, so this was a natural next step for us.”

Maybe it will be in our Southern Pines ABC. I mean, it is a flavored vodka after all.  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.

Wagner Family Values

A continuing Napa Valley legacy

By Robyn James

When it comes to iconic families in the wine industry, the list is short. There are the Jacksons, the Mondavis — and then there is the Wagner family.

It would be difficult to find a rival for this family’s roots in Napa Valley.  Multiple generations of Wagners have spent their entire lives there.

Chuck Wagner’s history in the Valley traces back to the 1850s, when his great-great-grandfather on his mother’s side captained a wagon train to California from Bible Grove, Missouri, and purchased 70 acres of farmland in the Oak Knoll district. In 1906, Chuck’s paternal grandfather, Carl Wagner, who came from a French Alsatian wine family, bought land in Napa to start his own winery. Producing bulk wines, the family did well until Prohibition kicked in, and they had to turn to fruit and walnut farming. 

One year after Prohibition ended, Carl’s son Charlie married a local Napa girl, Lorna Belle Glos, and they later bought acreage in Rutherford to plant fruit orchards and wine grapes.

Charlie couldn’t resist the notion that the American market wanted top quality wines, and he ripped up his fruit orchards and planted cabernet sauvignon from clones he purchased from Stag’s Leap winery. He grew quality grapes and sold them to local high-end wineries. Charlie’s only son, Chuck, caught the passion, and father and son would gather at the dinner table mixing different wines in glasses to find the perfect blend to accompany their food.

  However, Charlie wasn’t achieving the financial success he had envisioned.  When Chuck was only 19 his dad presented an ultimatum.  He wanted Chuck to join him full time in pushing the success of the winery, or he and his wife would sell everything and move to Australia. Chuck didn’t hesitate and committed himself to joining his dad in the quest for great Napa cabernet on their winery named Caymus, after a Mexican land grant.

Charlie and Chuck noticed one year that they had a few exceptional barrels and decided to create a reserve wine, Caymus Special Selection.  The business was going well when the big break came in 1989. The Wine Spectator named the 1984 Caymus Special Selection as the No. 1 Wine of The Year.  Five years later they won again with the 1990 Caymus Special Selection becoming the only wine in the world to win that accolade twice.

It is probably safe to say that Caymus is the most well-known winery in California and perhaps in the world.  Their reputation for cabernet is impeccable and untouched.

Chuck enjoyed blending so much that he introduced a white wine called Conundrum, a mix of chardonnay, sauvignon blanc and muscat, to their portfolio, and although his dad thought the wine was too sweet, it became so popular they introduced Conundrum Red in 2011 and two more wines in 2016, Conundrum Sparkling and Conundrum Rosé.

Chuck Wagner’s dream was that his own four children would continue his legacy in the family business. All of them had worked in the winery and vineyards after school and in the summers all of their lives. He created a variety of new brands to allow each of them to create their own opportunity.  The oldest son, Charlie Wagner, is responsible for production of Mer Soleil, Wagner’s chardonnay project.  He is also the director of winemaking for Conundrum Red and runs the family’s newest venture, Red Schooner, whose fruit is grown in Argentina, shipped to Napa and finished in the Caymus style.

Chuck’s older daughter, Jenny Wagner, joined the family business as winemaker for their Emmolo project, launched by and named after her mother, Cheryl Emmolo, who dreamed of keeping the family name alive by making a wine label using her father’s vineyards. Their focus is on sauvignon blanc and merlot.

The second oldest son, Joe, took over Wagner’s pinot noir project, Belle Glos, named after his grandmother, Lorna Belle Glos Wagner.  He came up with the idea of a lower priced pinot noir called Meiomi, hitting the mother lode with this idea of a higher alcohol, big, full-bodied, fruity wine that proved to be a direct hit with American consumers.  He did what Chuck never would have done and sold the Meiomi label to Constellation Brands for $315 million. 

Joe left the Wagner umbrella to create his own wine company, Copper Cane, housing seven different brands he hopes to pass on to his own six children, guaranteeing the Wagner name will remain synonymous with top quality and innovation in Napa Valley for generations to come.  PS

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

A Telling Tale

Things worth more than money

By Bill Fields

On Mother’s Day, I think of a working mom: mine.

Growing up in a time when more mothers than not stayed at home, Mom always had a job. Although she has worked in a department store and a small dress shop in her later years, when it comes to life outside the home, she is a bank teller in my mind’s eye.

No matter what it houses, I will never think of the building set back from Broad Street as anything but Citizens Bank and Trust, Southern Pines’ first and, until the early 1960s, only bank. It became part of First Union in the early 1970s and went through other mergers and acquisitions along the way and is part of Wells Fargo today.

Mom’s years at the bank spanned from the 1950s in the Broad Street location into the 1980s at the branch in Pinecrest Plaza. Although I can’t say having a bank teller for a mom was as exciting as if she had been a zookeeper, basketball coach or pilot, there were advantages.

I might not have gotten larger denominations than other kids from the Tooth Fairy, but I bet nobody found more shiny quarters under his or her pillow. When I began a coin collection, it was easy, with Mom’s help, to get started on filling the slots in those blue folding books — Buffalo nickels, Mercury dimes, even the occasional aluminum penny from World War II would show up.

I got to tour the place, of course, beyond the teller windows. The break room was nifty, but getting to step in the vault was better than a school field trip out of town. When I was real little, I asked her why we couldn’t take all the money and move to Mexico. But life on the lam, even in a warm, sunny place by the water, wasn’t in her dreams. I did, however, get a gross of No. 2 pencils once that she bought at wholesale from the office supply salesman. I also got one winter of Tuesday nights at the bowling alley when she was part of the Citizens Bank team, and her white shirt with green lettering was the best sporting attire I’d seen that wasn’t in Carolina Blue and white.

Mom went to work whether she felt good or felt bad. Pretending a sniffle was something more in order to get a day off was considered on the order of burglarizing a neighbor’s home — something you would never even think about. Sometimes she came home on her lunch break to watch a bit of As the World Turns, but she always returned to the bank at the appointed time, even if some good stuff was going on in Oakdale.

And when the workday was over, she did not have the luxury of being able to pick up a roasted chicken at Harris Teeter or takeout from dozens of restaurants. Dad occasionally cooked supper, but it was mostly Mom’s responsibility. We had a home-cooked hot meal — tasty, filling — for supper almost every night.

Mom did these things — one job for which she was paid and another for which she wasn’t — without fanfare or complaint, that being the way things were and the way she was. If, over my working life, I have met deadlines and for the most part not had colleagues who wanted to throw things at me in frustration, I owe a lot of that to her example.

She never failed to be courteous to customers, whether they were insurance agents, shop clerks, doctors or factory workers who endorsed their paycheck with an “X” instead of a signature because they didn’t know how to write. There was a dignity in her job and in everyone she waited on.

I’ve been to plenty of banks from Georgia to Connecticut since my middle school days when my mother made me put most of the money from a brief summer job into a new savings account instead of blowing it on something I didn’t really need. Some of these tellers have been nice and helpful, perfectly fine folks, but I am a very tough grader.  PS

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