When Bogeys Are a Good Thing

Former major leaguer manages new team

By Jim Moriarty   •   Photographs by John Gessner

Near the end of the baseball classic Bull Durham, strong-armed Nuke LaLoosh goes looking for his catcher, Crash Davis, to tell him he’s been called up to the majors. He finds Crash in a pool hall owned by Sandy Grimes, who’s sitting with his back to a wall and a cue stick in his hands.

“Let’s get out of this dump,” Nuke says.

“You callin’ my place a dump?” Grimes jumps to his feet.

“No. He’s not. He’s not. All right?” Crash smooths it over. He turns to the phenom he’s been nursemaiding through the minors and says, “Do you know who this is? This is Sandy Grimes. Sandy Grimes hit .371 in Louisville in 1965.”

Grimes is quick to correct him. “.376.”

“I’m sorry,” Crash says, genuinely apologetic. “He hit .376. That’s a career, man. In any league.”

The chances are pretty good that, even when the full roster of the brand-new Sandhills Bogeys baseball team was introduced to their manager, Bernie Carbo, few if any of them knew who he was. And that’s OK, even if he was way, way better than Sandy Grimes.

The Bogeys are the newest “franchise” in the Old North State League, where 13 teams compete for a couple of months in the summer the old-fashioned way — with wooden bats — just like the pros. They’re playing in a park built especially for them on the campus of Sandhills Community College, and the only aluminum you’ll find won’t be in a bat, it’ll be in a soda can. The players on the Bogeys can be forgiven if they didn’t recognize Carbo’s name. They’re in their late teens and early 20s, guys playing in college or getting ready to, and the man they were being told was guiding their summer team is 74. Carbo played in the big leagues for 12 seasons with five different clubs in both the American and National Leagues. He moved to Southern Pines from Mobile, Alabama, about 18 months ago with his wife, Tammy, a retired educator. When they were first married, Bernie adopted Tammy’s son, who took the name Bernardo Christopher Carbo Jr., and is now a psychologist and an officer at Fort Bragg.

   

“Bernie’s a trip,” says Alec Allred, who started the Old North State League in 2018. “Anytime we can have a former big leaguer that is the manager of one of our teams, obviously you can’t say no to that. He’s an incredible baseball mind. I enjoy just sitting around listening to his stories. He’s a legend, truly. The players are going to enjoy playing for him. They get to be around it every day this summer.”

Sandy McIver, who was the pitching coach at Union Pines High School, and Tom Shaffer, who coached baseball at Georgetown University, will be doing most of the heavy lifting when it comes to coaching the team, but it would be a mistake to think of Carbo as little more than a conversation piece. If your goal is to get better and you have a chance to talk hitting with a guy who has been teammates with Frank Robinson, Pete Rose, Johnny Bench, Lou Brock, Carlton Fisk, Jim Rice, Carl Yastrzemski, Fred Lynn, Willie Stargell and Dave Parker; a guy who has run a few questions about the art of hitting past Ted Williams, Henry Aaron and Stan Musial; a guy who has stood in the batter’s box against Bob Gibson, Jim Palmer and Nolan Ryan; you might be able to learn a thing or two.

And, if not, the stories are worth the price of admission.

“First time I faced Nolan Ryan I heard the umpire go ‘Strike one’; ‘Strike two’; ‘Strike three.’ I turned around to the umpire and I said, ‘I didn’t see any of those pitches.’ And the umpire said, ‘Neither did I, but they sounded good.’”

Versions of that story have been told about every pitcher whose velocity creeps into triple digits — including Bob Feller and probably going all the way back to Walter Johnson — but it’s a helluva a story, and even if it’s not 100 percent original, it sounds good, just like Ryan’s pitches. “Walk in the clubhouse, you’d see all the guys in the training room. We all knew who was pitching,” Carbo says. “Nolan Ryan. Nobody wanted to play. He struck me out 19 times in a row. He threw me a change-up and I hit a home run.

“Jim Palmer gets me out for five years,” Carbo continues, the memories stirred together like cream in coffee. “I get a base hit off him and he comes to first base and says, ‘I want to shake your hand.’”

Palmer even autographed a baseball for him. It said Jim Palmer 0-for-5 Years.

Those are the stories Carbo tells on himself. But if you think he couldn’t hit because a couple of Hall of Famers gave him fits, you’d be mistaken. The first major league draft was in 1965. Rick Monday, Billy Conigliaro and Ray Fosse were in it. So was Bernie Carbo, picked 16th. Johnny Bench was taken 36th. Carbo’s first full year in the majors was 1970. He hit .310 with 21 home runs and 63 RBIs and was second in the Rookie of the Year voting. That’s a career, man. In any league.

And he just happened to have a starring role in one of the greatest baseball games ever played. You can look it up. Game six of the 1975 World Series between the Boston Red Sox and the Cincinnati Reds. Carbo was on the Red Sox, but he’d previously been a Red for four seasons. He knew both dugouts intimately. The Reds had Pete Rose, Tony Perez, Joe Morgan, Johnny Bench, Davey Concepcion and George Foster. The Red Sox had Carlton Fisk, Fred Lynn, Carl Yastrzemski and Jim Rice, who couldn’t play because he was injured. Altogether there were six Hall of Famers in the series, seven if you count Reds manager Sparky Anderson.

With Cincinnati ahead three games to two in the series and leading in game six, 6-3, Carbo was sent in to pinch hit in the bottom of the eighth against reliever Rawley Eastwick. In 2015 the National Baseball Hall of Fame brought Fisk and Eastwick together on stage to reminisce about the game. It was Fisk’s home run that hit the left field foul pole (now named in his honor) in the 12th inning that ultimately won it for the Red Sox. They lost the series the next day. The film clip of Fisk waving the ball fair as he hopped and leaped and clapped his way down the first base line is a classic. It’s more famous in Boston than Sam Adams. But it was Carbo’s three-run blast that gave him the chance.

With the count 2-2, Carbo fouled off a couple of pitches and looked overmatched doing it. “Carbo had one of the worst swings that a major league ballplayer could have ever had; he just barely fouled the ball off to stay alive, or he would have been out,” Fisk said at the Hall of Fame. “And then the next swing it’s the best swing you could ever see in a game.” The drive easily cleared the center field wall, traveling somewhere between 420 – 450 feet, setting up Fisk’s heroics. “The game started on October 21st and ended on October 22nd,” Fisk said.

In the top of the 10th Rose came up to hit, looked back at Fisk and said, “This is some kind of game, isn’t it?” Undoubtedly there are a few expletives omitted in that telling, but the sentiment was sincere enough. Later, Rose told his manager it was the greatest game he ever played in.

   

Hitting advice, however, isn’t the only way Bernie Carbo can help the Sandhills Bogeys. He can tell kids what not to do, too. Carbo’s self-published biography is titled Saving Bernie Carbo. It’s written with a psychologist, Dr. Peter Hantzis, using an unusual format. Hantzis does a brief introduction of each chapter; Carbo talks the reader through it; and, at the end, the doctor makes “educational comments” evaluating Carbo almost as if he were making notes about a patient. Hantzis still uses the book in the psychology classes he teaches at the University of Massachusetts Lowell. “For Bernie the most important thing was finding his faith. That’s what really saved his life. And I agree. I think that’s exactly what happened,” Hantzis says.

During his talk at the Hall of Fame, Fisk said that Carbo was more than offbeat, “he was just off.” Carbo’s autobiography explains some of the reasons why. His father was a cruel man, a fighter in a circus, and he beat both Bernie and his mother. He was a man with unrealized baseball ambitions of his own who simultaneously lived through his son while constantly berating him.

“I became a drug addict and an alcoholic,” Carbo says of his years in the majors. “When I got to the big leagues, I quit working. What happened to me? I got worse.” Carbo can be a powerful force when it comes to explaining to young men how to honor their God-given talent.

His mother tried to commit suicide when he was a boy. She succeeded when he was a grown man. “My mother commits suicide. My dad dies. I’m going to commit suicide,” Carbo says. He was saved by a couple of former teammates, pitchers Bill Lee and Ferguson Jenkins, and a Baptist minister he shared a Tampa hospital room with. “God put me with a preacher,” says Carbo. And it took.

“Bernie Carbo did not receive treatment for his mental health and substance abuse problems until he was in his mid-40s,” writes Hantzis in Saving Bernie Carbo. “Sadly, even if Bernie had as a child been identified as a victim of abuse and trauma, his treatment options would have been limited. In the 1950s child psychiatry, child psychology, social work and family therapy were in their early stages, and unavailable to many children.”

Clearly, when it comes to the art of hitting, Carbo can be a constructive influence for players who want instruction. Not everyone on the roster will, and he knows that. The Old North State League isn’t necessarily a steppingstone to anything other than a summer of fun. “They’re coming to this league to have fun, to enjoy it and play baseball,” says Carbo. “But you never know who’s watching. David Justice went to Thomas Moore University. They were playing a Division I school and the Atlanta Braves had two kids they wanted to see on the Division I team. David Justice hit two balls out of the park. The guy from Atlanta calls the Braves up. ‘Thomas Moore has this kid and he’s just unbelievable.’ Next thing you know he’s the No. 1 draft choice. Plays in the World Series.”

But if you do want a little help swinging the bat, there’s probably no one better in the Old North State. “These guys obviously understand the sport at a different level. You know his spring training coach was Ted Williams. Can you imagine?” says Hantzis. “Bernie has a great style of communicating. He looks you right in the eye. He’s so sincere and he’s so interested in you. Bernie is unique. This is a great man.”

Sometimes, you do know who’s watching. One of the catchers on the Bogeys is Riley Cameron, who graduated from Union Pines in 2017, played two seasons at Wheeling University and will transfer next year to Catawba College. “I play summer ball every summer and I haven’t gotten to play close to home since I’ve been in college,” Cameron says, “so I’m glad that I can play in front of my family and friends again.”

   

Allred, who is an associate scout for the Texas Rangers, sees opportunity in the Sandhills because of its strong high school baseball programs and thriving tourist economy. “It’s just a perfect market for a baseball team,” he says. “Our players are at the forefront of our thoughts in terms of how we try to do everything, but we have started focusing more and more on the fan experience. That’s why we’re so excited about having this team in the Sandhills. We really want to try to go to a different level and incorporate a lot of what minor league baseball does in terms of the between-inning promotions and stuff like that to really get the fans engaged. This is almost going to be a pilot team for how we’re going to operate in the future.”

Besides knowing when to look for the curve and when to call it a night, Carbo can offer at least one more piece of wisdom. The first time he was getting ready to hit against the Cardinals Hall of Famer Bob Gibson, Carbo was in the on-deck circle but began creeping closer and closer to home plate, taking practice swings, trying to time Gibson’s pitches. (Just for context, in 1968 Gibson’s stat sheet read like this: He was 22-9 with an ERA of 1.12 and pitched 28 complete games, including three in the World Series. And you simply did not mess with Bob Gibson.)

“The ball goes whoosh!” Carbo says, turning his head quickly. “I go back to the bench. ‘Sparky, that guy just threw at me.’ When I got traded to the Cardinals, I got to know Bob a little bit. ‘Bob, do you remember throwing at me in the on-deck circle? He says, ‘Yeah, I missed you.’ I ask him ‘Did you intend to hit me?’ He says, ‘Yes.’”

The upshot is, you need to find those places in life where you’re safe. It took Bernie Carbo more than 40 years to find his. PS

Jim Moriarty is the Editor of PineStraw and can be reached at
jjmpinestraw@gmail.com.

Simple Life

“The Cocktail Cat”

The spirit of a roaming feline

By Jim Dodson

I have a friend who never fails to show up at cocktail time.

Wherever he’s been, whatever he’s been up to all day, he appears like clockwork as I settle into my favorite Adirondack chair under the trees to enjoy a sip of fine bourbon and observe the passing scenes of evening life.

Fortunately, he doesn’t drink bourbon. He doesn’t do much of anything, near as I can tell, except annoy the dogs and pester me well before dawn for his breakfast after a night out carousing the neighborhood, before snoozing all day on the sunny guest room bed like a house guest who won’t leave.

We call him Boo Radley after the peculiar character who saves Scout Finch in To Kill a Mockingbird. Our Boo, an old, gray tomcat who would rather watch birds than chase them, hasn’t caught a bird of any sort in years.

At cocktail hour, rain or shine, you can set your watch by Boo’s punctuality. Hopping up on the arm of my chair or the small table where I set my whiskey while I reflect on the day’s events and find pleasure in watching birds at the feeders, Boo is either too fat or too old to bother trying to catch them. Even in his salad days he was never much of a killer, though he would leave the occasional mouse on a discreet lower step of our back porch.

Like his cinematic namesake, Boo’s an oddly friendly fellow once he gets to know you, though he generally doesn’t cotton quickly to strangers. Curiously, we’re half convinced several folks in the neighborhood are secretly feeding him, because he’s beginning to resemble a bowling pin. Perhaps he has them fooled into believing that he’s actually homeless. Nothing is further from the truth. He’s managed to ditch every expensive collar and bell we’ve put on him over the past 10 years in order to keep his dining ruse going.

In fact, Boo Radley has had at least three very nice homes. The first was in Southern Pines when No. 2 son brought him home on a cold winter evening. He was just a small gray foundling you could hold in the palm of your hand, a friendly little cuss who appeared half-starved and very grateful.

Second Son named him “Nikko,” which means “daylight” in Japanese, and planned to take him off to Boston, where his new job in the hospitality industry awaited. His mom wisely interceded, pointing out that the last place a homeless kitten needed to live was with a single career guy working long and impossible hours.

So we inherited Nikko. The first thing I did was give him a new name and identity.

He seemed to like the name Boo Radley, though who can ever say what a cat is really thinking.

I suppose that’s part of that peculiar feline charm. Dogs occupy space, someone said. Cats occupy time. They act like you’re on this planet to serve them and should be damn grateful to do so. Another friend who has several cats informs me that cats know the secret of the universe. They just won’t tell anybody.

During our many years in Maine, we had a succession of barn cats who wormed their way into our affections. As a lifelong dog lover who occupies more space than time, even I came to admire their independence and pluck, somehow surviving the fierce Maine winters and coyotes.

Boo grew up with our three dogs, sometimes sleeping with them, often stealing their food, giving them a passing swat now and then as a friendly reminder of who was really in charge. Bringing up Boo was like raising a problem child.

We eventually moved to a house that had 2 acres of overgrown gardens. Boo didn’t miss a beat. He was always out in the garden, night and day, either following me around or snoozing in the shade on hot summer afternoons. A neighbor warned us there were foxes in the area.

One evening around dusk, I saw Boo sprint across the yard, chased by a young gray fox. Moments later, I saw the young fox run the opposite way, chased by Boo Radley. This game of cat-and-fox tag went on for weeks. Nature will always surprise you.

Not long after that, we moved to the Piedmont city where I grew up and Boo found a new pal in the neighborhood, a large, brown, wild rabbit that comes out every evening around cocktail time to feed on clover and seeds from our busy bird feeders.

I named him “Homer” after the author of the epic Greek poem about a fellow who wanders for 10 years trying to get home. Our Homer seems very much at home in our yard, keeping a burrow beneath my hydrangea hedge.

Boo is highly territorial about our yard — woe to any other cat that sets foot on the property — but has no issue whatsoever about sharing space with a large wild rabbit. I’ve seen the two nose-to-nose many times over the years.

Such are so many sweet mysteries in this world that we cannot explain.

But maybe we don’t always need to. Perhaps it’s enough to simply notice them.

In his splendid essay, “A Philosopher Needs a Cat,” NYU religion professor James Carse writes: “It is not accidental that the word animal comes from the Latin anima, soul. The primitive practice of representing the gods as animals may not be so primitive after all. Soul is not only the small ‘still point of the Tao’ where there is no more separation between ‘this’ and ‘that,’ it is also the presence of the unutterable within.”

A mystic would probably say it’s enough to simply pay attention as different worlds intersect when we least expect it, revealing the presence of the unutterable within.

I have no idea what Boo Radley would say about such matters, being a cat of few — or actually no — words. He’s not one for small talk.

But after so many years and miles together in each other’s company, it’s enough that Cocktail Cat never fails to sit with me as the evening fades, season after season, displaying the kind of timeless nonjudgment and spiritual detachment a Buddhist monk might envy. Boo is perfectly companionable while betraying absolutely no opinion on — or apparent interest in — the trivial matters I present to him as we watch birds feed and I sip my expensive bourbon. At the end of the day, there doesn’t seem to be much separation between his “this” and my “that.”

It also occurs that maybe I have the philosophical proposition plum backwards. Perhaps this aging, well-traveled tom cat simply needs an armchair philosopher to sit with in silence at the end of the day.

Only the Cocktail Cat knows for sure, and he ain’t telling, a perfect presence of the unutterable within.  PS

Jim Dodson can be reached at jwdauthor@gmail.com.

Birdwatch

Rare Bird Alert

Keep an eye out for the roseate spoonbill

By Susan Campbell

With its bright pink body, the roseate spoonbill is certainly the most distinctive and garishly colored bird in North America. And what about that odd bill? Although their typical range does not include North Carolina, spoonbills do stray into the extreme southeastern part of our state in late summer into early fall. So, if you keep your eyes peeled at this time of year, you may be lucky enough to spot one.

Research indicates that breeding colonies are found in parts of Florida, Louisiana and Texas. Unfortunately, the birds there are not widespread, even where they are regular. Loss of foraging habitat has restricted roseate spoonbills to protected areas such as wildlife refuges. Water quality has also reduced prey, as sedimentation and chemical pollution have inundated bays and estuaries in the Southeast.

There are several species of spoonbills worldwide, but roseate is the only one found on this continent. Their name comes from the birds’ bright red-pink plumage and spoon-shaped bill tip. Their extremely sensitive mandibles snap shut around food items such as small fish, crustaceans and insects found in the shallow waters they probe. Roseate spoonbills swing their heads side to side as they slowly walk though brackish or saltwater. The types of foods they capture result in their bright feathers.

Those amazing pink feathers put the birds at risk of extinction during the 19th century when many spectacularly colored birds were hunted for their plumes. The wings of roseate spoonbills were, unbelievably, actually sold as fans as well as for hats and other adornments.

When these amazing birds are spotted in our state, they are almost always mixed in with other waterbirds such as herons and egrets. They are extremely gregarious year-round. The best place to scan along the coast beginning in mid-July is Twin Lakes, in the Sunset Beach area. However, individual roseate spoonbills have also been found at Ocean Isle and North Topsail, as well as in the mouth of the Cape Fear in recent years.

Last summer, there were many reports of roseate spoonbills, not only inland in North Carolina but well to our north, including immature birds with their size and unusual bill as well as their pale pink plumage. One roseate spoonbill was sighted in Pinehurst and up to four in Woodlake. If you catch sight of one of these distinctive birds anywhere in the Sandhills or Piedmont, please let me know. PS

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

The Pleasures of Life Dept.

The Sunfish

Too small to keep. Too big to forget.

By Ashley Walshe

This isn’t a big fish story. Quite the opposite, actually. And it starts right here on Lake James, the massive hundred-year-old reservoir lapping the eastern edge of our state’s Blue Ridge Mountains.

It’s the pinnacle of summer. High on a red clay ridge, the whip-poor-will, whose incessant chanting often stretches well into the balmy morning, has gone silent. The red dog is weaving among windswept pines, and I am sitting on the wooden deck of a Coachmen RV, a sparkling sliver of lake visible a half-mile in the distance.

My grandparents used to live here. Not in this 32-foot travel trailer, home to my husband, the dog and me for a warm and watery season. But on down the meandering shoreline, in the brick and stucco home with the vaulted ceiling, lakeside gazebo and sweeping view of Shortoff Mountain.

Papaw kept his pontoon at a nearby marina. If I close my eyes, I can almost see two kids swinging their legs at the edge of his boat slip. I’m the little girl with the auburn curls and wild swath of freckles. My younger brother, all blue eyes and dimples, is perched beside me. Neither of us have fished before.

On this day, Papaw is cradling a box of live crickets, and Dad is showing us how to hook them. The black and silver schnauzer, whose feet and beard are permanently stained from the red earth, is barking at the wake as a neighboring boat glides up to dock.

Once we cover the basics (don’t snag your sibling or grandpa), we cast a few lines, jiggling the rod to make our crickets dance.

Papaw watches from the captain’s chair as Dad teaches us a ditty from his own childhood. The song changes based on who’s singing it. Mine goes like this:

Fishy, fishy in the lake, won’t you swim to Ashley’s bait?

I sing incessantly. And guess what? In no time, I feel the coveted tug of what must be a whopper at the end of my line.

I squeal. I reel. And up shimmies the smallest sunfish you’ve ever seen. A bluegill, I think. No bigger than my tiny, freckled hand.

“Can we keep it?” I ask, twitching with excitement. 

“If he’s long enough,” says Papaw. Gripping my whopper in his leathery hands, he gently slides out the hook then slips the fish into a shallow bucket of water. “We’ll measure him later.” 

My brother and I cast several more lines — first at the boat slip, then out in a quiet cove on the water. Although the song appears to have stopped working, that doesn’t deter us from our fervent chanting. We sing until the crickets are spent, my sunfish our singular catch of the day.

I know now that we had no business keeping that tiny sunfish. But it was never about the fish for Papaw.

Peering down into the bucket, my grandpa announces that the bluegill is “just big enough,” then gives me one of his signature winks. I wink back from my seat outside the camper, smiling through time at a proud little girl and her very first fish.

That night, while the rest of the family ate crappie from a previous haul, I savored every bite of my pan-fried sunfish. It didn’t look like much on the plate, but the memory has fed me for a lifetime. PS

Ashley Walshe is a former editor of O.Henry magazine and a longtime contributor to PineStraw.

Tea Leaf Astrologer

Cancer

(June 21 – July 22)

If ever you’ve ridden a drop tower — one of those gut-in-your-throat “free fall” rides at the carnival — then you can imagine what it feels like to know and love a Cancer. But only those born under the influence of this cardinal water sign know what it’s like to be perpetually at the whim of such sensational pinnacles and descents. This month will be no different, especially with that full supermoon on July 13. May as well enjoy the ride.

Tea leaf “fortunes” for the rest of you:

Leo (July 23 – August 22)

Something needs watering. Hint: It’s not a plant.

Virgo (August 23 – September 22) 

You can’t see the signs if your eyes are closed.

Libra (September 23 – October 22)

Let the tea steep.

Scorpio (October 23 – November 21)

You already know the answer.

Sagittarius (November 22 – December 21)

Keep moving. They’ll come around or they won’t.

Capricorn (December 22 – January 19)

You’re thinking the fun out of it.

Aquarius (January 20 – February 18)

The prize is never inside the box.

Pisces (February 19 – March 20)

Tell it to your dream journal.

Aries (March 21 – April 19) 

Best to get it straight from the source.

Taurus (April 20 – May 20) 

Leave your phone. Forget the umbrella. Let life happen.

Gemini (May 21 – June 20)

The invitation will be obvious.  PS

Zora Stellanova has been divining with tea leaves since Game of Thrones’ Starbucks cup mishap of 2019. While she’s not exactly a medium, she’s far from average. She lives in the N.C. foothills with her Sphynx cat, Lyla. 

In the Spirit

Rum, Anyone?

Three styles to pique your curiosity

By Tony Cross

I love rum. On its own; stirred in Ti’ Punch; shaken ice-cold in a daiquiri; in a box; with a fox.

I love rum. This probably comes as no surprise. Whenever I get a chance to splurge, I’ll order more than a few bottles online — usually brands that I already know. Over the past two years I’ve been on a Clairin kick. You remember Clairin, don’t you? It’s the sugar cane spirit from Haiti that’s high in proof and lovely on the palate. Well, I still have plenty of that left over from last year, so this go-round I decided to grab a few bottles I’m familiar with, and a few that I’m not. Here are two old favorites, and one that’s made just west of an island I grew up on.

Plantation 13 Year Jamaican Rum 2005

I’ve had the Plantation Distillery rums before and, as soon as my most recent order arrived, I grabbed a bottle and made a daiquiri. I thought I had picked their signature blend (which retails at $24.95). My daiquiri was so damn good, I immediately made another. I was floored by how tasty it was. Turns out I had dipped into the 13 year ($64.99) instead. Honest mistake: The packaging is kind of similar, but I should’ve spotted the difference. Not to worry, it was one of the best daiquiris I’ve ever had. It’s great on its own, too. Aged for 12 years in bourbon barrels in Jamaica, it’s then shipped to France to mature for another year in small cognac barrels. It’s dry on the front palate, but then hits you with fruit and a touch of funk on the back end. I noticed that the longer it sat in my glass, the easier it was to pick up notes of banana, vanilla and whatever else I can’t remember. It was delicious.

Cor Cor Okinawan Rum Red Label

I was shocked to see rum from Okinawa available online. I grew up there as a lad and have nothing but fond memories. This was also a staff pick from the website I frequent, so clearly it was a no-brainer to give it a shot. This rum is different. On the nose: dirty vodka martini. Swear to God. On my first sniff, I was like, “Whoa, that smells briny!” The sniffs that followed (I hope I never have to type that again) yielded, “Yeah, that’s a dirty martini.” Weird. On the palate it’s a little saline, light, slighty grassy. Okinawan grassy? I really don’t know. I think I need more time with this one. I’ll probably make a Ti’ Punch with it to see what a touch of sugar and acidity do to it.

El Dorado Special Reserve 21 Year Rum

This bottle was a splurge. It retails for around $100. I’ve had it a few times before and figured it was time to be a big boy and have my own bottle. Before I get into why this rum is so special, I’d like to touch on something I read from one of the website staff members who reviewed it. “While whiskey gets increasingly expensive and certain bottles become harder to find, rum’s vivid and decadent flavors are an easy jump to make for a bourbon or Scotch drinker.” Whiskey prices are ridiculous these days and, honestly, I find a lot of whiskies to be overrated relative to the cost. Maybe it’s because I live in North Carolina, but I sometimes find rum to be my little secret. I know so many people that love to chat “whiskey this, whiskey that,” but when I show them a good rum, their minds are blown. The few times I’ve enjoyed the El Dorado 21 year, it’s been as a nightcap after a lovely dinner. This is a long, slow sipper that’s meant to be enjoyed on its own. Caramel on the nose, with toffee and spices on the palate, and sweet smoke on the finish, this rum from Guyana is elegant. Consider this as a gift for a whiskey connoisseur, and you’re guaranteed to make them a rum fan. PS

Tony Cross is a bartender (well, ex-bartender) who runs cocktail catering company Reverie Cocktails in Southern Pines.

Fire up the Grill

Cookout classics with a twist

Story & Photographs by Rose Shewey

Contrary to popular belief, grilling is not just for meat lovers. Whether you grill a juicy burger or mushroom caps, the universal experience is much the same — hot glowing embers, sparks flitting about like fireflies, the bitter aroma of smoke wafting in your face, and the sheer joy of preparing a meal under the open skies. The symphony of sounds, smells and the visual excitement of grilling speaks right to our hearts as most of us recollect beautiful childhood memories of breezy, carefree summer days spent with friends and family.

To clear up one common misconception for my fellow expats and anybody from north of the Mason-Dixon line: Grilling and barbecuing are not the same in our neck of the woods, despite most of the English-speaking world using these terms interchangeably. Ask any native Southerner with a penchant for pork. Authentic Southern barbecue calls for low heat, a considerable amount of smoke, and plenty of patience, to name just a few ingredients, whereas grilling requires hot and dry heat, which will swiftly and effortlessly cook the food. So, this season, join us in celebrating traditional, mouth-watering, grilling fare with a bit of a Bohemian twist!

 

Strip Steak with Cherry Mint Chutney

Instead of preparing sophisticated and laborious marinades and brines, stick to the basics. Achieve bold and intensely rich flavor with a simple yet potent pre-rub: Brush steaks with olive oil; mix equal parts of ground cumin, paprika and coriander; and rub on the meat. Sprinkle generously with salt and freshly cracked pepper and grill for about 4–5 minutes per side. For an exotic twist, serve it with a cherry mint chutney — use your favorite, basic vinegar-based chutney recipe, replace the fruit with fresh, pitted cherries, and add fresh mint leaves to it.

 

Moroccan Grilled Shrimp with Harissa

Coated in ras el hanout, a unique spice blend abundant with aromas of cardamom, cinnamon, ginger and rose, these crustaceans are exceptionally zesty as shrimp effortlessly adapt flavor. With a little char from the grill, a dollop of smoky harissa and fragrant, crushed mint leaves, the Mediterranean doesn’t seem so far away anymore. Make your own harissa using a mixture of dried and fresh chilis combined with caraway and cumin seeds, fresh garlic, lemon juice and rosewater. Blend into a fine paste. Pair with an herby couscous salad and fresh mint tea, or push the boat out with a mojito — the choice is yours.

 

Greek Chicken with Toasted Almond Hummus

Undoubtedly, the thighs are among the most richly flavored parts of the chicken, next to the wings. With a respectable skin-to-meat ratio and a high fat content, chicken thighs carry and amplify any flavor or seasoning you might add. For a Mediterranean twist, combine yogurt, olive oil, lemon zest, fresh minced garlic, oregano, salt, pepper, and marinate for at least 30 minutes (or up to several hours) in the fridge. Cook chicken thighs, bone-in, for about 8–10 minutes on each side until cooked through. Serve with fresh, chopped veggies and toasted almond hummus — simply dry roast sliced almonds in a frying pan until fragrant and puree together with your hummus ingredients.

 

Balkan Burger with Ajvar and Blue Cheese

How to elevate the ubiquitous, humble, all-American sandwich into epicurean realms: Dress it up with artisanal cheese and Old World-style relishes and condiments. The latter, we’re borrowing from Balkan cuisine. Ajvar, also called “Balkan caviar,” is made from sweet peppers and eggplant slow-cooked for several hours. The result is a refined, opulent, richly flavored spread that can be teamed with many dishes but works especially well atop a juicy burger, together with a pungent, sharply flavored cheese.

 

Grilled Peach Crostini with Whipped Goat Cheese, Honey and Thyme

The quintessential North Carolina summer fare, as far as I am concerned, is grilled peaches, hands down. Peaches are seductive in their natural state but become even more enticing grilled. The fruit sugar caramelizes and flavors intensify, the char marks form and smoke imparts woodsy notes into the skin and flesh. Grill for 2-3 minutes on each side, serve atop silky smooth whipped goat cheese on grilled slices of bread, and drizzle with honey. To whip goat cheese, combine 2 parts goat cheese with 1 part cream cheese, a generous dash of olive oil, and pulse in a food processor. PS

German native Rose Shewey is a food stylist and food photographer. To see more of her work visit her website, suessholz.com.

Art of the State

Super Natural

Davidson artist Elizabeth Bradford celebrates the beauty of the wild

By Liza Roberts

Photograph By Lissa Gotwals

In a former cotton shed in Mecklenburg County, Elizabeth Bradford paints the natural world around her. With extraordinary, saturated colors and meticulous, zoomed-in details, her landscapes can be exotic, surprising, even strange. They are also poetic: meditative celebrations of the beauty, interconnectedness and geometry of the natural world.

On canvases nearly as tall as she is, Bradford takes countless hours over many weeks to paint the magic she finds in nature. Sometimes it’s an eddy of water. Sometimes it’s the messy bank of a receded river, where roots protrude and collide. Trees, fields, ponds, creeks: Bradford finds wonderlands in them all. Representational, but with deep, twisting tentacles into abstraction, her canvases beg the viewer to look hard.

In January 2023, Hidell Brooks Gallery in Charlotte plans a solo exhibition of her art. Wilmington’s Cameron Art Museum exhibited a powerful one-woman show of Bradford’s work, entitled A House of One Room, in 2021. Her paintings are also in the permanent collections of the Mint Museum in Charlotte, the Weatherspoon Art Museum at the University of North Carolina at Greensboro, and the Blowing Rock Art and History Museum, as well as in many top corporate collections.

This University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill graduate considers herself largely self-taught as an artist, but she also studied painting and lithography at Davidson College and worked as an art teacher before devoting herself full time to her craft.

Bradford says her work began to “develop a power” when she started backpacking in the mountains of North Carolina about nine years ago. With two friends, she started “going into a lot of obscure places, wild places, where the world is crazy,” she says. Now armed with a pole-mounted camera, she takes photos as she goes, hundreds of them in the space of a few days’ hike. These images become her inspiration when she returns to the studio. “Truth is stranger than fiction,” she says. “The wild is stranger than anything I can dream up.”

   

(left) Weeds at the Treadwell, (right) Cumberland Island Swamp

The truth is also more meaningful. The wilder the land, the more Bradford says she finds to care about. “I’m on a mission to sensitize people to the beauty of the earth,” she says. To take things “that aren’t obviously beautiful and to render them beautiful.” She does that in large part with unexpected, vibrant oil and sometimes embedded shards of glass, something she once eschewed as a “cheap trick.” But after a number of years of hewing as close to the actual color of the natural world as possible, she decided she was selling herself short. “Why are you being this ascetic?” she says she asked herself. “Why are you denying yourself access to something you love so much? And so I started pumping up the color. And as a result I’ve gotten more imaginative, more intuitive. More soulful.”

She brings all of that to every one of her subjects, most recently weeds. “Weed studies have introduced me to some really cool forms,” she says. “Arabesques and extravagant curves. I’ve been playing with a lot of that . . . I’m always trying to keep moving outward, not just repeating the same things. I keep looking for newness.”

Actively challenging herself has become an ingrained habit, one that began the year Bradford turned 40 and made a promise to herself: “Instead of getting bummed out about getting old, every year for my birthday I would pick something I didn’t think I could do, and I would spend a year trying to do it.” That first year, she decided she would paint a painting every day. A few years ago, she made the commitment to learn French. Lately, she’s begun renovating an 1890s farmhouse, one she discovered deep in the woods on the bank of a creek, far from roads and traffic and noise. A two-hour drive from her (also 1890s-era) Davidson home, it will serve as Bradford’s summer residence and studio. “It’s my dream,” she says.

And so as she ages, Bradford’s world gets more and more interesting — not that boring is an option. “The world is just so complicated and fascinating,” she says. “There are just not enough years of life to do everything you want to do.” PS

This is an excerpt from the forthcoming book Art of the State: Celebrating the Art of North Carolina, to be published by UNC Press this fall.

Southwords

Baking Betty

Research, research, research

By Ruth Moose

Betty Crocker and I go back a while, though I don’t go back as far as she goes. Betty Crocker, icon for General Mills, is 100 years old this year. One of the most recognized advertising symbols in the world, Betty has only gotten younger. Many up-to-date hairdos and wardrobe changes. She has kept up with the times. My relationship with her ended amiably enough, and I have my little red spoon of confidence lapel pin to prove it.

Many years ago when I lived in Charlotte in a split-level house, carpooled in a wood-paneled station wagon, and did all kinds of PTA and Boy Scout stuff, my family was a member of a very exclusive club. We were one of 500 General Mills test families across the country. I tested recipes that ended up on the backs of cereal boxes, flour packages and General Mills products, excuse the expression, in general. I wasn’t paid but was reimbursed for the cost of recipe ingredients. I figured since I baked and cooked anyway, why not make it interesting? And I like to try new recipes.

Helen Moore, my good friend as well as neighbor, was at that time food editor for the Charlotte Observer. She invited me and several other women of various ages and stations to a lunch with two home economists from General Mills. It was a lovely lunch in a nice restaurant, a real treat in the middle of the week. Good food, fun conversation, and afterward I was asked to be part of 500 families scattered across the country. The home economists explained that, though they tested recipes in their laboratory kitchens in Minneapolis, they wanted reactions from real people in real home kitchens. Where the pasta meets the road, so to speak.

During the years I tested a variety of recipes, everything from vegetable dishes (carrots cooked in frozen apple juice with fresh ginger was a good one) to cookies made with various cereals, to a whole series of recipes using wine. I saw many of these later in cookbooks. For the most part, my family was good-natured about the whole thing. They were used to seeing different things on the table when they sat down to dinner.

After I tested a recipe, I filled out forms that included what I had paid for certain ingredients, whether I had them on hand, how difficult they were to find, and so on. Other forms asked if the instructions on the recipe were clear. Was it hard to follow? How much time did it take to make it? And there was always the question of my family’s reaction. They were the ultimate arbiters. Actual people eating real food in a home kitchen. Nothing complicated. Except the time I was sent a recipe for gumbo.

No, I did not have filé powder on hand.

No, I did not keep canned okra on my pantry shelf.

I didn’t know you could even CAN okra. And it surely didn’t sound appetizing. Breaded and fried okra is food of the gods! But okra in a can? In the South yet? Sacrilege.

So, I went in search of canned okra. In those days Amazon wasn’t even a twinkle in Jeff Bezos’ eye. Managers of the A&P, Kroger’s and Harris (before there was Teeter) laughed at me. Was I some kind of nut? Canned okra? I finally found a lonely can on the bottom shelf of a tiny exotic foods market. Exotic for North Carolina, certainly.

Then I made my first and only gumbo.

My family’s reaction, after a couple of mouthfuls, was to ask if we couldn’t go to McDonalds.

We did, leaving plenty for the garbage disposal and a none-too-glowing report for Betty Crocker.

After that, whenever my sons sat down to something unfamiliar, their immediate reaction was, “Are we eating Betty Crocker?”

I probably tested recipes for Betty for six or eight years. The gumbo was the only unqualified disaster. A lot of the recipes I still make — a Wheaties cookie; many of the wine dishes, including a pot roast cooked with Burgundy.

The program was discontinued but, as a token of their appreciation, I was given a tiny version of Betty’s trademark, a small, enameled red spoon lapel pin — the Phi Beta Kappa of gumbo, I suppose — and a real conversation piece at dinner parties. PS

Ruth Moose taught creative writing at the University of North Carolina-Chapel Hill for 15 years and tacked on 10 more at Central Carolina Community College.

Lakeside Serenity

Delighting in the unconventional

By Deborah Salomon

Photographs by John Gessner

   

Question: How much should a house reflect its occupant’s background/taste/lifestyle/beliefs?

Somewhat, with a few pertinent artifacts, mementos?

Definitely, with unity of theme or period, palette or furnishings?

Completely, for Le-Arne Morrissett of the lilting Aussie accent.

   

This requires formidable juxtaposition, since Morrissett’s house is cookie-cutter contemporary, located in a cluster of villas, circa 1980s, overlooking Lake Pinehurst. The interior, however, conjures distant continents: A paella pan hangs from the wall, and a tagine sits on a rough-hewn refectory table, in front of a vast counter assembled from reclaimed wood which, aided by a massive cedar beam, divides the open kitchen from the great room containing a cream-colored sectional and two chairs upholstered in orange velvet.

“Orange is a color that has an awareness to it, and makes people happy,” Morrissett believes.

From the tagine comes chicken tagine, a Moroccan specialty redolent of preserved lemons, apricots, olives and spices. The aroma — totally casbah. From the paella pan comes Thanksgiving dinner.

   

Beside her front door, Morrissett planted a Buddha garden, selecting a small statuette from her collection. On the walls hang century-old woven tapestries called suzani, once included in bridal dowries.

A single swath of Uzbekistani fabric drapes a sidewall window and cascades onto the floor.

While the effect might excite a Western eye, Morrissett — having experienced Asia, India, Pakistan, Turkey, Europe — describes it as “calm,” a favorite word.

Zen abides here.

     

It was a former husband’s golf quest that lured this distaff Marco Polo to Pinehurst.

“I’ve always lived by the water,” Morrissett explains, looking out over the sun-sparkled lake. “I love the calmness and quiet nature of the water, the ducks and geese.”

What she didn’t love was the predictable condo layout, which cut 2,000 square feet into cubicles. So she took most of the main floor down to the studs, opened it up, then closed off the loft (accessed by a free-standing winding staircase) to make a guest suite. This created a second-story wall — perfect for hanging abstracts, one by her daughter at age 5. Other oversized décor includes two weathered barn doors attached directly to a wall. A ceiling fixture was constructed from three massive glass jars resembling light bulbs suspended from the cathedral ceiling.

The floors: What could this material be, so cool to bare feet? Puddles of bright, navy-blue-against-gray concrete, sealed with a glaze, common in Australia, replaced vinyl floors and, surprisingly, kitchen countertops. Carpet wears out, wood needs refinishing, Formica stains. Concrete is forever.

Area rugs in blue and orange Middle Eastern designs soften footsteps in high-traffic areas.

     

Morrissett is an artist. Her medium, hair, which she styles at Beautopia, her salon in downtown Southern Pines. But she also indulges in shoes. Remember Imelda Marcos, first lady of the Philippines, infamous for her politics, famous for her 3,000 pairs of shoes? Morrissett’s collection numbers only 100, visible from a made-to-order cabinet in the master bedroom.

“Shoes make me happy,” she says. No surprise, hers are colorful, unusual, better for dancing than office wear. So why not display?

   

Obviously, this lady revels in the unconventional. The remodel of her bathroom puts a tub inside the glass shower enclosure, a nod to Turkish bath houses — surely a first in Moore County. In her son’s room and throughout the house, case pieces are painted in East Indian motifs and hues. Buddha makes several more appearances. Because Morrissett loves to cook exotic dishes, the major investment went into the kitchen, now quasi-industrial, with gray walls, stainless steel cabinets and appliances.

“I live in this kitchen,” she says

The view, as seen from a large deck, remains an ungilded lily and emblem for Morrissett’s philosophies. “The lake reminds you just to breathe, to be so grateful of what is around you, to be aware of its sustainability.”

   

Decorating against the grain requires confidence, self-awareness, whether the result is Scandinavian contemporary in Hong Kong or Jaipur in a Carolina golf community. Morrissett has embodied both traits in this highly personal and expressive residence. “At night when you can’t see the lake I sit outside and look into the house . . . just magic,” she says. “This house was my therapy. I bought it by myself, furnished it by myself.”

Finally: “How a house lives is so much more important than how it looks.”

Now to her liking, this one lives calm. PS