Southwords

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Sole Searching

Finding just the right fit

By Emilee Phillips

The outfit begins with the shoes. Everyone knows this. Even in my tomboy years when my sense of personal style went no further than hating the color pink and having a small but mighty hoodie collection, it was true. I needed nothing more than a beat-up pair of Chuck Taylor Converse to anchor the look.

Today my boyfriend would kindly direct your attention to the fully loaded shoe rack that’s taller than I am, but somewhere between then and now I came to love fashion for the same reason I enjoy writing — it tells a story.

Oh, those Chuck Taylors. I loved the flat sneakers because they were easy and unintimidating and they went with everything. One year, I saved up birthday money to buy a pair of the customized Chuck Taylor Converse online. Today the options are more limited, but back then 11-year-old me was able to construct a pair of the most obnoxious high tops that have ever been laced up.

My favorite color was teal, so naturally that was my primary choice. The tongue and heel stripe accents sported lime green. I even had “Emilee” sewn onto the heels. I thought it made me en vogue though in reality it looked like something your mom would write in your underwear at sleepaway camp. What did I care? I was running off the fumes of a high octane mixture of teal and lime green.

The look was dealt a minor setback since my pre-teen feet had grown faster than what was living above them. My disproportionately large feet made my au courant Chuck Taylors look like clown shoes. My dad took one look at my bright new kicks and busted out laughing. “Nice water skis,” he chuckled. But nothing could rain on my parade. I wore those shoes every day, no matter how poorly they matched the rest of me, until the holes in the bottoms let the rain in.

By the time my size eight feet no longer mismatched the girl, I had evolved. Somewhere, somehow, I had acquired what passed for taste. While my current shoe rack is admittedly large, the threshold for “too much” is, I believe, subjective.

My sister gets it. She has shoes for every outing. It’s not all about fashion, practicality requires a healthy mix. What if you need to make jeans look fancy? What if it snows? What if you’re going to a Dropkick Murphys concert? What if you’re in a step count challenge with a friend and need to walk 10,000 steps in a day? What if you have to line dance in a pub in Savannah? What if you’re at a ’60s-themed party? What if you get invited to a brunch you know will turn into a sightseeing tour of the city? What if you’re walking through a fish market? What if you’re going to the ballet? What if you have to chase a rolling lime down a grocery store aisle with dignity? What if you’re on a cobblestone street? What if you’re hiking on a muddy trail in Asheville? Pure white Hokas wouldn’t stand a chance, which is why you need multiple colors: one pair for getting mucked up and one for everything else.

My current shoe rack might look like a small storage unit, but every pair has a purpose. Whether they’re painfully impractical heels that I’ve only worn once or sneakers that I could walk across the desert in, they each have a history, from an impulse buy to the perfect pumps I found at the end of the internet. And if that makes me obsessive? Fine. But at least I’ll be obsessively prepared — for weddings, walks and maybe even water skiing.

Golftown Journal

GOLFTOWN JOURNAL

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Gimme Five

The club that can do no wrong

By Lee Pace

“Nothing is so beautiful as spring.”

Unless it’s a 185-yard par 3 with the pin on the left.

With apologies to Gerard Manley Hopkins for using his line of verse as a hook for this missive on my favorite golf club, there’s nothing that gets the juices flowing more than pulling my vaunted 5-wood (or 21-degree hybrid in contemporary parlance) and setting up for a gentle draw.

The 17th hole at my home course, Old Chatham in Durham, N.C., invites this distance and ball flight perfectly from the next-to-back tees if the pin’s rear left.

The sixth green at Pinehurst No. 2 is placed at an angle suggesting a right to left ball path and, at 200-plus yards from the Ross Tee, hits the sweet spot for a 5-wood shot, a bounce and some roll on those always firm turtleback greens.

Stand on the 17th tee at the Ocean Course at Kiawah with the Atlantic off to the right and you might well face a shot in that 185-yard range — all carry over a hazard with the water bordering the green on the right. It takes some cojones to aim a hair right over the water and curl it back — but that 5-wood is johnny-on-the-spot.

All great fodder indeed for my favorite club.

Mind you, we’re not suggesting my modest resume even sniffs the same league as Jack Nicklaus wielding his 1-iron on two of his most famous shots — to the 18th green at Baltusrol in winning the 1967 U.S. Open, or hitting the pin on the 17th green at Pebble Beach in collecting the 1972 U.S. Open championship.

Or Ben Crenshaw rolling in that mammoth putt from 60 feet on the 10th at Augusta in 1984 with his Wilson 8802 putter, the club nicknamed “Little Ben” that his dad bought for $20 out of Harvey Penick’s golf shop in Austin.

Or Phil Mickelson performing magic lob shots with the 64-degree wedge that he personally grinds to take the bounce off the trailing edge and the heel so that when he lays it open, the sole sits flush to the ground.

When I first started playing golf seriously in the 1980s, I had a Tommy Armour 5-wood with a persimmon head. That blond-colored wood with the lacquered finish set up perfectly no matter the ground — it would flush the ball off a tight lie or whip like butter through the Southern summer Bermuda grass.

Persimmon gave way to metal heads and later titanium. Fairways woods became “hybrids.” At various times, I played forged irons and later, cast clubs. I wielded Wilson irons in the early days and later played Pings and now have a bag full of Titleists.

But no matter the manufacturer or the makeup of my set of clubs, priority No. 1 has always been getting that 5-wood just right — that club that was more forgiving than the 3-wood or 3-iron and was ideally suited for approach shots into long par-4s and par-3s. Today the club of choice is a Titleist H1 19-degree with a regular flex Tensei shaft.

That 5-wood looks just right and feels just right.

It certainly did to PGA Tour player Pat McGowan some four decades ago.

McGowan played on the PGA Tour throughout the late 1970s and through the 1980s, and it wasn’t until the mid-1980s that he broached the idea of a 5-wood.

“Almost everyone carried a 1-iron, no matter who you were,” says McGowan, the director of instruction at Pine Needles Lodge & Golf Club in Southern Pines. “Most good amateurs with low single-digit handicaps carried a 1-iron. It was almost like a 5-wood was a sissy club. You carried a driver, a 3-wood and a 1-iron.”

He put a Ping 5-wood into play in the mid-1980s.

“It had a black head and a red, laminated insert,” McGowan says. “I hit it higher with that club than my 4-iron. I’ll never forget at New Orleans, it must have been 1986 or so, I came to a long par-4 or short par-5, I can’t remember which, but there was a bunker all the way in front of the green, and that 5-wood cleared the bunker, landed on the green and stopped on the green. I said, ‘Oh, my God.’ I couldn’t hit that shot with any other club. I hit it high and it landed soft. I took the 1-iron out.”

A few years ago, I was invited to a member-guest tournament at Forest Creek Golf Club in Pinehurst. The competition was five nine-hole matches on the club’s North and South Courses. My host and I played well together that weekend, and we needed to win our match on Saturday afternoon to collect first place in our flight.

The last match was on the back nine of the South Course. We had a 1-up lead on the par-3 17th, our eighth hole of the match. The South Course at Forest Creek, a 1996 Tom Fazio design, is replete with picturesque holes, and this is one of the nicest — an amphitheater setting, downhill, a wide and shallow green with a pond across the front.

The flag was on the left, and the breeze was into our faces. My GPS device measured 182 yards.

I pulled my 5-wood and teed up my ball. I stood behind it and envisioned that crisp contact and a high, right to left ball flight. Believing is seeing, and that’s exactly what I got.

The ball stopped 6 feet from the hole. I made the putt and the match was over.

I won a very nice Scotty Cameron putter that weekend, and I still carry it in my bag. It’s held in high esteem but not quite as high as that smooth and silky 5-wood.

PinePitch March 2026

PINEPITCH

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PinePitch March 2026

Book It

The month’s series of author events begins on Thursday, March 12, with Mark Oppenheimer discussing his new biography, Judy Blume: A Life, at 6 p.m., at The Country Bookshop, 140 N.W. Broad St., Southern Pines. On Wednesday, March 18, Anita “Spring” Council will talk about her book Southern Roots: Recipes and Stories from Mama Dip’s Daughter, also at 6 p.m. and also at the Country Bookshop. Information can be found at ticketmesandhills.com or at www.weymouthcenter.org.

Dig This

The Sandhills Community College Horticultural Gardens launches its celebration of the 250th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence by hosting Peter Hatch, author, gardener, former director of the gardens and grounds at Monticello and an alum of the SCC landscape and gardening program. Learn all about “Thomas Jefferson’s Revolutionary Gardens at Monticello” at BPAC’s Owens Auditorium on Thursday, March 19, at 1 p.m. You can register at www.sandhills.edu/gardenevents or go to www.ticketmesandhills.com.

It's Not Harvey

Kids ages 9 and under can scoop up all the Easter eggs they can fit in a basket at the village of Pinehurst’s Easter egg hunt at 10:30 a.m. on Saturday, March 28, at Cannon Park, 90 Woods Road, Pinehurst. Leave room for food, beverages and a visit from the Easter Bunny himself. No púcas allowed. For additional info go to www.vopnc.org.

Tristan und Isolde

An Irish princess and a love-drunk tenor — what more could you ask for? The Met Opera supplies both in Richard Wagner’s Tristan und Isolde on the big screen at the Sunrise Theater, 250 N.W. Broad St., Southern Pines on Saturday, March 21 at noon. For information go to www.sunrisetheater.com.

Blockbusters of the Old Sod

The Sunrise Theater will run a triptych of award-winning movies in an Irish film festival beginning with Riverdance on Tuesday, March 10, followed by The Commitments on Wednesday, March 11, and My Left Foot on Thursday, March 12. All films begin at 2 p.m. at 250 N.W. Broad St., Southern Pines. For more information got to www.sunrisetheater.com.

Don't Be Bashful

Enter a magical, fairytale world at a performance of the ballet Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, featuring the music of Bogdan Pavlovsky and the dancers of the National Opera and Ballet of Ukraine, on Wednesday, March 18, at 7 p.m., at BPAC’s Owens Auditorium, 3395 Airport Road, Pinehurst. Tickets begin at $46.01. Yes, we know they don’t make pennies anymore. Go figure. For info and tickets go to www.ticketmesandhills.com.

It's Not Easy Being Green

Except one day a year. In Pinehurst that day is Saturday, March 14, when the village turns every shade of green imaginable for its St. Patrick’s Day Parade, beginning at 10 a.m. The address is 1 Village Green Road W., but all you have to do is follow the crowd. If you need more info go to www.vopnc.org.

Cider House Rules

After the St. Paddy’s Day parade you can motor on down to the James Creek Cider House and Orchards for the North Carolina Cider Association’s March 14 spring fling, the Bloomtime Ciderfest, beginning at 1 p.m. The festival features live music from Whiskey Pines and Chip Perry, food trucks, tours of the orchard, and samples of ciders and meads from 15 producers including Barn Door Ciderworks, Botanist and Barrel, Bull City Ciderworks, Honey Girl Meadery, Noble Cider, Red Clay Ciderworks, Starrlight Mead, Urban Cider Company and, of course, your host James Creek. The address is 172 U.S. 1, Cameron. General admission is $40 with a $60 VIP package. For info go to www.jamescreekciderhouse.com/bloomtime-ciderfest.

Seven Questions with Sheena Easton

Q: When you look at your career now, what surprises you most?

Sheena: I’m always amazed I’m still working and that the fans are still there. I stepped back from the constant album–tour cycle to raise my kids, and I’m so grateful I didn’t have to sacrifice family to keep doing what I love.

Q: You’ve sung “Morning Train (Nine to Five)” for decades. What’s your relationship with that song today?

Sheena: Like any artist, I went through phases. At first it’s exciting. Then you only want to sing the new stuff. Now I look at the audience and see couples grab each other’s hands because it’s “their” song, and that makes me fall in love with it all over again.

Q: “For Your Eyes Only” is such an iconic Bond theme. What has being part of that world meant to you?

Sheena: It was huge for me. It came right after “Morning Train” and took my music to even more places because Bond fans will embrace the theme even if they don’t know the singer. As a kid I was always excited for the new Bond song, so being asked so early in my career felt surreal and still feels like a badge of honor.

Q: Songs like “Strut” and “Sugar Walls” definitely pushed the envelope. How do you see that chapter now?

Sheena: People say I “changed my image,” but really I just grew up. I started as a college kid. By the mid‑’80s I was a woman with more life experience and broader musical tastes. Some folks don’t like to see you change, but you have to pull them along and say, “I’m more grown up now — this is who I am.”

Q: There was controversy around “Sugar Walls” and that famous Tipper Gore list. How did you feel about that?

Sheena: We were on the list of songs kids “shouldn’t” hear and, honestly, I said that’s fine — if you don’t want your children listening, don’t let them. Parents should police what their little ones hear, but adults should decide for themselves. You can’t tell the whole world what art they’re allowed to like.

Q: You’ve worked with legends like Prince. What was he like in the studio with you?

Sheena: Everyone pictures this intense genius — and he was a genius — but in the studio he was relaxed. We laughed a lot, sang Joni Mitchell around the piano, and by the time we hit “record,” it felt like we’d known each other forever. He had a great sense of humor and loved to prank you.

Q: If you could talk to the little girl Sheena who just wanted to sing, what would surprise her most about you now?

Sheena: She’d probably be shocked that I’m “this old.” As a kid I fully believed it would happen; children are dreamers and haven’t been taught to be afraid of failure yet. It was my older self who became less sure it would last this long.

— By Stan Pillman

Sheena Easton performs live at BPAC’s Owens Auditorium, 3395 Airport Rd., Pinehurst, on Friday, March 20 at 7 p.m. For tickets and information go to www.ticketmesandhills.com.

Dissecting a Cocktail

DISSECTING A COCKTAIL

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The Tipperary

Story and Photograph by Tony Cross

The Tipperary first appeared in the 1916 book Recipes for Mixed Drinks, by Hugo R. Ensslin.

Likely named for either the town in Ireland or the popular World War I song “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary,” about a young man yearning for “the sweetest girl I know,” the first print has this cocktail with equal parts Irish whiskey, sweet vermouth and Chartreuse. It was Harry MacElhone’s ABC of Mixing Cocktails in 1922 that upped the whiskey to 2 ounces, the vermouth to 1 ounce, and identified the original Chartreuse spec as green, using 1/2 ounce. You can look at The Tipperary as a spin on the classic Bijou cocktail (substituting gin for Irish whiskey) or imagine it as an Irish Manhattan with a kick of Chartreuse.

The recipe given here is from a famed Irish bar in New York City, The Dead Rabbit. The bartenders there found a better balance by lowering the Irish whiskey to 1 1/2 ounces and adding a couple of dashes of bitters. With mezcal, tequila and bourbon being all the rage over the past 15 years, Irish whiskey may not be getting its due. This is the perfect cocktail for any whiskey-curious imbiber to cut their teeth on.

Specifications

1 1/2 ounces Irish whiskey

1 ounce sweet vermouth
(I recommend Dolin Rouge)

1/2 ounce Green Chartreuse

2 dashes Angostura bitters

Orange peel

Execution

Combine all ingredients in chilled mixing vessel, add ice and stir until proper chilling and dilution has occurred. Strain into a chilled cocktail glass. Express oils from orange peel over cocktail — keep as a garnish or discard.

Almanac March 2026

ALMANAC

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Almanac

March 2026

By Ashley Walshe

March is a procession of tiny wonders.

In the wakening woods, where trout lily and spring beauty appear and disappear at the speed of life, red fox trots toward the forest’s edge, silent as a spring ephemeral.

Weaving between woods and meadow, bluebird combs the softening earth, harvesting grass and pine needles to craft its tidy, cup-shaped nest.

Behold the purple martin. A charm of hummingbirds, shimmering like flying prisms. Sprinkles of color in all directions.

Scarlet maple seeds cascade from naked branches. Fiddleheads brighten creeksides with a riot of luminous spirals. Electric redbuds dazzle.

Yellow transcends itself. Daffodils spill across rolling hills like a sun-kissed sea of trumpets. Spicebush quivers at the tender kiss of swallowtail. Dandelions present as wild, impassioned brushstrokes.

Earthworms animate the loamy soil. Black snakes dance across the warm earth like ribbons.

The humans emerge, too. Gardeners dawdle in dirt and sun. Lovers listen for warblers, sparrows, spring peepers. Children comb the earth as the bluebird does.

“Violets!” they squeal, gathering tiny purple flowers by the tiny precious palmful.

“Can we use them to make cookies?” they ask. “Pink jelly? Lemonade?”

Bare feet in feather-soft grass, they feel the wonder many have forgotten. The wonder of warm earth blossoming with new life. The taste of wild violet.

As the procession of spring continues, slip off your shoes. Let the tiny wonders revive and delight you. Awaken the purity of your own vernal spirit.

Red Clover, Red Clover

Should you happen upon a patch of tender clover, allow yourself to stay a while. Get quiet. Attune to the frequency of these sprightly, three-leaved sprigs. Some say you can hear them singing.

A symbol of the Emerald Isles, the seamróg (Gaelic for “young clover”) is a robust ground cover, building soil and, come spring, inviting a wealth of pollinators.

But did you know that their leaves and flowers are edible? If ever you’ve tried clover blossom jelly, delicate and sweet, then you know the ecstasy of butterfly and bumblebee. Nibbled a leaflet? Just a day in the life of a cottontail rabbit.

And if ever you’ve found a four-leaf clover, well, the luck of the Irish be with you. 

Sun, Moon and Stars

Behold a blood moon just before sunrise on March 3 — a total lunar eclipse that, indeed, will give the moon a rusty hue.

On Friday, March 20, the sun crosses the celestial equator at 10:46 a.m., marking the official arrival of spring (although the birds have suggested it for weeks).

As for the stars? It’s Pisces season until March 21, when fiery Aries turns up the heat. In other words: in like two fishes, out like a ram.

One swallow does not make a summer, but one skein of geese, cleaving the murk of March thaw, is the spring.

                    — Aldo Leopold

Bookshelf

BOOKSHELF

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March Books

FICTION

Now I Surrender, by Álvaro Enrigue 

In the contested borderlands between Mexico and the United States, a woman flees into the desert after a devastating raid on her dead husband’s ranch. A lieutenant colonel in service to the fledgling Republica, sent in pursuit of cattle rustlers, discovers he’s on the trail of a more dramatic abduction. Decades later, with political ambitions on the line, the American and Mexican militaries try to maneuver Geronimo, the most legendary of Apache warriors, into surrender. In our own day, a family travels through the region in search of a truer version of the past. Part epic, part alt-Western, Now I Surrender weaves past and present, myth and history, into a searing elegy for a way of life that was an incarnation of true liberty.

The Creek, the Crone, and the Crow, by Leah Weiss

Summer, 1980. Kate Shaw has lived in Baines Creek for 10 years, teaching in a one-room schoolhouse on the brink of closure. A skeptic by heart, she rejects superstition and the belief in Appalachian folklore, much to the chagrin of Birdie Rocas, a lively and reclusive witch with a trove of secrets. Yet when Birdie dies and leaves Kate her Book of Truths and a trunk of illuminated manuscripts and journals, Kate is thrown into a mystery, overwhelmed by a collection that spans centuries back to Scotland. Enter Lydia Brown, a psychic with a curious birthmark whose visions stopped the day her parents died. Grief-stricken, without her gift, and in need of spiritual guidance, she travels to Appalachia in search of Birdie. From there, the two women’s stories intertwine, as they investigate the questions surrounding Birdie’s death and legacy, through secret rooms, underground tunnels and back-country graveyards.

NONFICTION

Judy Blume: A Life, by Mark Oppenheimer 

To know the name Judy Blume is to know and love literature. Her influential novels turned classics — including Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret; Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing; Deenie; and Summer Sisters — touched the lives of tens of millions of readers. For more than 55 years her work has done something revolutionary: It rewired the world’s expectations of what literature for young people can be — frank, candid, earthy, and unafraid to show the messier sides of humanity. Oppenheimer pens a beautiful, multidimensional portrait of the acclaimed author through extensive interviews with Blume herself, invaluable access to her papers and correspondence, and thoughtful analysis of Blume’s beloved novels. Oppenheimer peels back the curtain to reveal the woman behind the literary empire in all her complex, multifaceted glory.

The Best Dog in the World: Essays on Love,
edited by Alice Hoffman

Fourteen beloved authors celebrate the life-changing bond with their canine companions in this heartwarming essay collection. Anyone who has ever been fortunate enough to share their life with a dog knows the experience is both profound and transformative. Here, in this charming collection of essays, celebrated authors share unforgettable tales of the dogs who left their pawprints on their hearts. With contributions from Isabel Allende, Chris Bohjalian, Bonnie Garmus, Roxane Gay, Emily Henry, Ann Leary, Tova Mirvis, Jodi Picoult, Elizabeth Strout, Amy Tan, Adriana Trigiani, Nick Trout, Paul Yoon and Laura Zigman, The Best Dog in the World captures the full range of the canine-human connection, from the joy of welcoming a new puppy to the heartache of saying goodbye to a beloved friend.

CHILDREN'S BOOKS

Goldfinches, by Mary Oliver

Mary Oliver, winner of the National Book Award and the Pulitzer Prize, is one of America’s most beloved poets. Introducing her unforgettable words to children for the very first time, her poem “Goldfinches” joyfully observes the power of the natural world as only Oliver can. Illuminated by the exquisite mixed-media artwork of Caldecott Honoree Melissa Sweet, Goldfinches fills the reader with wonder for the beauty around them and gratitude for the ability to bear witness to it. (Ages 4-8.)

The Future Book, by Mac Barnett

Every other book was written in the past. But this book? This book was written in the future. Do you want to know what the future is like? Turn the pages to get a glimpse at the world of tomorrow and its unexpected words, strange social customs, and mind-blowing colors! From the award-winning duo Mac Barnett and Shawn Harris comes a funny, visionary picture book that kids will want to read again and again. (Ages 4-8.)

Wings of Fire, The Hybrid Prince, by Tui Sutherland

Umber was never supposed to be a hero. As the youngest sibling of his MudWing hatching, Umber doesn’t have the responsibilities of his bigwings, Reed, nor the heroic destiny prophesied for his brother, Clay. He’s always been content with his role as the cheerful, goofy little brother. But when his sister, Sora, causes a tragedy at Jade Mountain Academy, Umber finds himself on the run and thrown into a whole new role — protector. Umber and Sora fly south in search of a place where they can live far away from other dragons . . . until a kind, hybrid dragon named Mulberry saves him from a kraken attack, and Umber realizes they don’t have to survive alone after all. There’s an entire community living on a forgotten island, full of dragons hiding from their own dark pasts. As the two MudWings settle into the Court of Refuge, they start to realize that nothing in this place is quite what it seems, and the protection it offers comes with a price. In Wings of Fire, Book 16 Umber learns he must find a way to unlock the past of this mysterious island to ensure he and Sora have a future. (Ages 8-adult.)

Out of the Blue

OUT OF THE BLUE

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Strong to the Finish

’Cause I eats my spinach

By Deborah Salomon

Life is a highway, full of bumps and potholes. Signs, too, that mark the journey. A recurring billboard on mine shouts “Spinach.”

Weird. I know.

Spinach has grown into a nutritional superpower, in formats unrecognizable to pre-baby boomers who hated it with a passion reserved for liver.

Who could blame them? We knew it only as tough stringy leaves caked in sand, cooked to slime or, more likely, a ready-to-heat slime from a can touted by Popeye.

Popeye or not, my mother had me convinced the grim reaper would retaliate against non-consumers. So I learned to eat around it, then beg a tummyache, accompanied by retching sounds.

When that failed I insisted that spinach gave me a rash.

Where? Show me, Mommy demanded.

“But you told me never to . . . ”

I was a clever child, inventive even.

I have a faint memory of liking spinach at the Automat, that famous chain of Manhattan cafeterias, after swirling it into their fabulous mashed potatoes. But I celebrated my 10th birthday without ever choking down a plain, stringy, sandy leaf.

Our move to Asheville introduced co-ed junior high and a new breed of spinach called Birds Eye frozen into bricks, either whole leaf or chopped, which my mother cooked to death. She served the mish-mash sans salt, swimming in cooking water. With no divine mashed potatoes. I had to swallow a few spoonfuls — not bad, especially the creamed kind at the S&W cafeteria where we ate supper Wednesday evenings, same time as my first boyfriend and his widowed mother.

My own mother never guessed from whence came this sudden preference. So she stocked the pantry with Popeye. Yuck.

I can’t remember spinach making an appearance at the Duke dining halls, but — and I may be wrong — Anna Maria’s famous bootleg pizzeria in her Durham kitchen lavished leaves on an incredible crust.

Those were the good days, the happy days.

The ’70s and ’80s brought on the glorious California veggie revolution, where color, freshness, nutrition ruled. Some smart grower developed a baby spinach with velvety leaves, short stems and mild flavor. As a food writer I was all over the movement. Spinach was so cool, even chic. It was everywhere: in omelets, smoothies, stir-fries, salads, soups. When in Florence I ordered the famous veal Florentine, smothered in spinach. When my vegetarian daughter came home from Duke, where Anna Maria had become a legend, I invented a baby spinach, sliced strawberry and mushroom salad.

Fresh spinach is now available year-round. A handful cooks down to a spoonful in seconds, so spinach-haters needn’t suffer longer than one swallow. I still add ribbons to my turkey stuffing and, for color, homemade chicken soup.

Life’s highway now approaches an off ramp, but not without a final nod to the Sailor Man. For decades I have lobbied against frozen main and side dishes: too much salt, too many preservatives, too expensive. But Stouffer’s Spinach Souffle makes a tasty meal either as pictured on the box or microwaved and mixed into angel hair pasta.

Thanks for the ride, Popeye. For a guy pushing 100 you’re lookin’ pretty good. Must be the spinach. 

Focus on Food

FOCUS ON FOOD

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Faux Favorite

A plant-based attraction worth trying

Story and Photograph by Rose Shewey

Vegans come up with some bizarre ideas. They will slice up cauliflower, fry it like a piece of meat and serve it as “steak,” insisting it tastes just like the real deal, or better. Or they use the liquid from canned chickpeas to make whipped cream and appear completely unfazed by the lingering bean flavor. Maybe jackfruit passes as pulled pork in a BBQ sandwich to some, but from where I am standing it looks a lot like the emperor is naked.

No doubt, there are some strange meal creations in the plant-based kitchen, but despite it all, I’m rather fond of it. I dabbled with veganism for a few years and loved the creativity of it. Composing balanced, satisfying and — not least of all — healthy vegan dishes requires skill, some knowledge of food chemistry and a passion for experimenting.

Every now and then, clever vegan chefs strike gold. I have happy recollections of the first black bean burgers we made, which were — to everyone’s surprise — bursting with flavor. Or that time we discovered vegan cheesecake, which is still in the rotation for us today. As a graduate from a plant-based cooking course, where I was able to try my hand on a potpourri of “veganized” dishes, I was most impressed with a fish-less tuna salad made from chickpeas.

What sets this “tuna” salad apart from regular ol’ chickpea salad is the seaweed. It lends it the salty sea flavor which, combined with the tuna-esque texture and the addition of mayo, is so close to the original that most people do not notice a difference. I know this because I have had friends and family try this no-tuna salad, and across the board, nobody could initially tell it was, in fact, tuna-less.

Now, why would someone who does not subscribe to a vegan diet make this faux tuna salad? Aside from the sustainability issues surrounding tuna (and shady harvesting practices), tuna contains higher levels of mercury, which is a health concern to some of us. Others like the idea of tuna salad but not the fishy aroma — seaweed for the win! Also, making this salad is a tasty way to handle leftover chickpeas and sneak more fiber into your diet. Above all, this tuna-less salad is just too scrumptious not to try. 

Chickpea “Tuna” Salad Sandwich

(Serves 4)

3 cups cooked chickpeas

2-3 tablespoons finely diced red onion

1-2 celery stalks, finely diced

2-3 pickles, finely diced

2-3 tablespoons nori seaweed flakes (or nori sheets, chopped)

1/2 cup mayonnaise, traditional or plant-based

Salt and pepper, to taste

For Serving

8 slices bread

Green apples, thinly sliced

Lettuce

English cucumber, sliced

Spring onions, sliced

Directions

If using chickpeas from a can, drain and add them to a medium or large bowl. With a fork or potato masher, mash the chickpeas to break them up; optionally, leave some whole for a more interesting texture. Add onion, celery, pickles and nori seaweed flakes to the bowl and stir to combine. Mix in mayonnaise, salt and pepper. Taste and adjust seasonings as needed and keep refrigerated until ready to serve. Toast bread, if desired, then scoop a generous portion of the chickpea salad onto a slice of bread, add toppings of your choice and another slice of the bread on top.

Hometown

HOMETOWN

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Wearin’ o’ the Green

A little luck goes a long way

By Bill Fields

I’m going to wear something green on St. Patrick’s Day.

I’ve never been fully committed to doing so, but upon reviewing my ethnic origins for the first time in a while, I’ve decided that this March 17 I ought to get dressed with more purpose.

An updated DNA report shows there is more Irish in my background that I had thought, with single-digit percentages of my roots linked to each of three areas in Ireland: Connacht, Munster and Donegal. Some 18 percent of my heritage comes from the ancestral region of “Central Scotland and Northern Ireland.” Ancestry doesn’t break down that number; I hope the latter locale is well-represented.

Last summer, for the second time in a decade, I spent an enjoyable week working at The Open Championship in Portrush, Northern Ireland, where the commute from hotel to NBC Sports television compound consisted of a 15-minute walk through town or along the beach. The twice-daily stroll, including stops at friendly establishments for coffee in the morning and Guinness in the evening, was a pleasant antidote to many long drives in snarled traffic to major golf events over the years, trips sometimes punctuated by a parking lot attendant on a power trip.

It felt like luck was on my side in Portrush, including the day that a bat flew around the TV tower while we were on the air, causing analyst Kevin Kisner to duck and cover as it darted right over his head. Having had to receive a series of rabies shots after a close encounter with a bat while I was taking out the trash at dusk on a summer day in 1997, I was grateful our visitor stayed clear of my workspace. Someone purchased a large, long-handled net that we had at the ready the rest of the week, but to the relief of everyone in the tower, the bat never reappeared.

Luck is an apt topic in March, regardless of how one feels about the origins of “Luck of the Irish.” Rather than considering the idiom as ironic or derisive (as was the case when used about the success of Irish miners in the American West during the late 1800s), this seems the right time to simply place it in the context of extremely good fortune.

The enduring Irish symbol of luck and prosperity, the shamrock, is a three-leafed clover. Come March — which not only includes St. Patrick’s Day but marks the start of spring and the arrival of golf season in many places — I think of the much rarer four-leaf variety, believed to be a truly lucky plant. 

Years ago, while I was researching a story for Golf World about the legendary golfer Glenna Collett Vare, one of the things people remembered about the record six-time U.S. Women’s Amateur champion, a trailblazing athlete of the 1920s and ’30s, was her uncanny knack for finding four-leaf clovers.

One such instance occurred at the 1950 Curtis Cup at the Country Club of Buffalo when Vare captained the American team that included a young Ohioan, Peggy Kirk, later known as Peggy Kirk Bell, the matriarch of Pine Needles. Kirk trailed late in her singles match when Vare approached to ask her how she stood. Learning of Kirk’s deficit, Vare stepped away for a few minutes, then returned with a four-leaf clover and a message — “Go get her” — for Peggy. Kirk won the match, 1 up.

Given how finely groomed golf courses have become since Collett Vare’s era, it’s harder to find clover of any kind these days, not that modern players haven’t gotten some very good breaks. Less than a month prior to St. Patrick’s Day last year, in a playoff at the Mexico Open, Brian Campbell badly sliced a drive that was surely headed out-of-bounds until it struck a tree and caromed back in play, setting up his subsequent victory.

Campbell’s was as lucky a moment seen on the PGA Tour since 1992 when Fred Couples’ ball defied the odds and clung to the steep bank of Rae’s Creek on Augusta National’s 12th hole; or perhaps The Crosby in 1984 when Hale Irwin’s tee shot, headed toward the ocean left of Pebble Beach’s 18th hole, bounced off the rocks and onto the fairway, the ball appearing as if a seal had headed it to safety. Irwin birdied, then defeated Jim Nelford in a playoff.

From personal experience, I can report those rocks aren’t usually so kind.

Simple Life

SIMPLE LIFE

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My March Awakening

Finding the Kingdom of God in my own backyard

By Jim Dodson

Every year as March returns and my garden springs to life, I think of the remarkable woman who changed my life.

Her name was Celetta Randolph Jones, “Randy” for short, a beloved figure in the city of Atlanta’s business, arts and philanthropic circles. Five years my senior and leagues ahead of me in terms of spiritual growth, Randy was introduced to me by my editor, Andrew Sparks, during my first week on the Atlanta Journal-Constitution Sunday Magazine staff.

At that time in the spring of 1977, Randy was running The Georgia Trust for Historic Preservation and had stopped by the magazine to introduce herself and plumb my interest in historic preservation.

“Something tells me you two are bound to become best friends,” Andy wryly observed, a prophetic remark if there ever was one. 

In short order, Randy became my best friend and confidant, the one person I felt comfortable with discussing matters of life and death, heart and soul. Our love affair was a case of what the ancients called agape, transcending romance and superficial attraction. Besides, Randy was secretly dating an Episcopal priest, which I kidded her about relentlessly. She loved to give the needle back about the young women I went out with in those seven years of our deepening friendship.

Though she never married, “Aunt Randy” was the godmother of half a dozen of her nieces and nephews and, eventually, my own daughter, Maggie.

During my first few years in the so-called “city too busy to hate,” I frequently wrote about the darker side of the booming New South — race violence, corrupt politicians, unrepentant Klansmen, the missing and murdered, and young people who flocked to the city seeking fame and fortune only to lose their way and sometimes their lives.

A life-changing moment came one Saturday night when I was waiting for a squad from the city morgue to pick me up for a story I was working on about Atlanta’s famed medical examiner. As I stood in my darkened backyard waiting for my dog, McGee, to do her business, I witnessed my next-door neighbor, an Emory University med student, being gunned down in an alleged drug hit. He died as we waited for the ambulance to arrive.

Not surprisingly it was Randy who helped me make sense of this. The morning after my neighbor’s murder, I’d opened my Bible to the Book of Matthew for the first time in years and was struck by a reference that Jesus repeatedly makes about the “Kingdom of Heaven.”  That evening at dinner, I grumbled, “So where the hell on Earth is the so-called Kingdom of Heaven?”

Randy simply smiled. “It’s already here, my love. Inside us. You just have to see it.”

I was a wee bit annoyed by her calm assurance.

Randy was a classy and calm Presbyterian with an unshakable faith in God’s grace. I was a backslid Episcopalian who hadn’t darkened a church doorway since the murder of my girlfriend during our college days.

Purely because of Randy, however, I attended services the next Sunday at historic All Saints’ Episcopal in downtown Atlanta — a place where the doors were always open to the homeless. I soon took a job writing about the suffering of the Third World for the Presiding Bishop’s Fund for World Relief, and even made a vow that, going forward, I would only write about subjects and people who had a positive impact on life. Randy Jones was my inspiration.

I lived up to that vow, and even briefly entertained taking myself off to the Episcopal Seminary until a crusty old bishop from Alabama suggested that I could “probably serve the Lord much better by writing than preaching.”

My pal Randy gave her famous, sultry laugh when I mentioned his somewhat frank comment — and she agreed with him.

During my final years in Atlanta, Randy and I met at least once a week for lunch or dinner to talk about the events of the day and the mysteries of this world. She also spent several Christmases with my family in North Carolina, attended both of my marriages, visited my young brood in Maine and joined us for a joyous spring vacation at our favorite Georgia beach.

In many ways, she became the Dodson family godmother and probably the closest I’ll ever come to knowing a living saint — though she would respond with her sultry laugh at such a silly notion.

Over the decades, as Southern springtime returned, wherever I happened to be in the world, Randy would track me down by phone. She’d finish our talk with a couple meaningful questions: So, Jim, are we any closer to the Kingdom of Heaven? And . . . How is your beautiful garden growing?

She and I had visited public gardens together many times. Randy hailed from Thomasville, a small South Georgia town known as “City of Roses,” and knew that once I’d swapped big-city life for small-town living, I’d become a committed man of the Earth like my rural kin before me. There was no going back, she knew, on gardening or faith.

As my spiritual life grew and deepened across the years, I’d come to believe the Kingdom of Heaven might indeed be nearby. It’s no coincidence that Jesus mentions it 32 times in the Book of Matthew. His partner, Luke, simply calls it the “Kingdom of God” and makes clear — as Randy did — that it “lies within” everyone.

My favorite reference comes from the Gospel of Thomas, when Jesus’ followers pester him to explain where the “Kingdom” exists:

Jesus said, “If those who lead you say to you, ‘See, the kingdom is in the sky,’ then the birds of the sky will precede you. If they say to you, ‘It is in the sea,’ then the fish will precede you. Rather, the kingdom is inside of you, and it is outside of you.

Wherever it exists, I have my late friend, Randy Jones, to thank for putting me on a winding path to the Kingdom within. 

And I’m not alone.

Randy Jones passed away peacefully in October 2022. Her funeral service at Atlanta’s First Presbyterian Church was packed with people whose lives Randy had touched, from business leaders to artists, from church members to childhood friends, including a half a dozen godchildren and yours truly. The sanctuary overflowed with stories of her generosity and quiet wisdom, each person recalling how Randy’s kindness had shaped their own journeys. The service was a testament to the wide effect she had not only in Atlanta but in the hearts of everyone fortunate enough to know her.

Including a former backslid Episcopalian.