Omnivorous Reader

OMNIVOROUS READER

Storytelling at Its Best

A sweetly crafted tale of golf and life

By Stephen E. Smith

The best writers, those gifted beyond the ordinary, harbor obsessions, and when producing their finest work, they transform those obsessions into prose that they share communally with readers. That’s the case with Bill Fields’ A Quick Nine Before Dark. His obsession is golf — and anyone who’s been caught up in the intricacies of the game will want to read Fields’ memoir, front to back.

Fields is a North Carolina boy. Born in Pinehurst in 1959, he attended public schools in Moore County and graduated from the University of North Carolina. For 20 years, he was a senior editor for Golf World and is the recipient of the PGA Lifetime Achievement Award.

A Quick Nine Before Dark is for golfers of all skill levels. Even if you’ve never whacked a golf ball and you surf past reruns of Shell’s Wonderful World of Golf like it’s a Progressive commercial, you’ll likely find yourself swept up by Fields’ beautifully crafted prose, and the personal twists and turns of his life as a golf writer. He comes across as a gentle, earnest and thoughtful human being who has nevertheless tackled life head-on. You’ll find no scandals, no shocking moral shortcomings, no dark musing, no vilifications of former friends — just straight-ahead storytelling at its best.

Writers have tics and twitches of style that identify them as surely as their DNA, but Fields’ flaws are few, if any, and there’s nothing about his writing more rewarding than his efficient use of descriptive prose. When he feels the need to shine, he does precisely that, as with this excerpted Golf World description of Davis Love III as he captured a major title: “The conclusion to the ninety-seventh PGA Championship was soggy and sweet, like strawberries and sponge cake. As quickly as the late afternoon rain had come on Sunday to Winged Foot Golf Club in Mamaroneck, New York, it stopped, and the sun peeked through an angry sky. Two rainbows arched over the course at just the right moment, as if scripted by Frank Capra himself, and for Davis Love III, there wasn’t a burden in sight.”

Fields blends the elation of honest achievement with the whimsy of happenstance. In three carefully crafted sentences, he transports the reader to a significant moment in professional golf, evoking the sweetness of strawberries and sponge cake, and framing the moment of triumph with an allusion to a great filmmaker. Then he concludes with a pithy understatement: “. . . there wasn’t a burden in sight.” Could there be a more endearing description of earned exhilaration?

When the occasional somber moment intrudes, it’s handled with grace and thoughtful solemnity, as when Fields learned that his former wife, Marianne, had died. He was hundreds of miles away, talking with his mother by phone, when he heard the news: “It’s Marianne, Bill. She died. . . . Nothing in divorce-recovery books, the radio talk show advice, or the support of friends in the wake of a failed marriage had prepared me for those words.” The deaths of his mother and father are likewise handled unsentimentally but with a necessary touch of sentiment. “Life is ragged,” he writes. “Voids linger. Loose ends are everywhere.”

Fields’ obsession with sports began when he was a child, gravitating toward any game that involved a ball. When he failed to become a basketball star, he turned to golf after receiving a Spalding starter kit for Christmas in 1969. His focus on the game waxed and waned until he was a student at UNC, where he wrote for the Daily Tar Heel. After graduation, he knocked around the golf world, promoting the game, until he accepted a position with the Athens Banner-Herald, which would evolve into an associate editorship at Golf World. What followed was a series of positions that eventually led back to Golf World, the magazine that started in the same town where he was born.

Fields covered tournaments in the United States and overseas, which brought him into contact with the greatest golfers of our time. How many golfers can boast that they’ve played the game with Sam Snead and Tiger Woods?

But A Quick Nine Before Dark is more than another golf book — it’s also about becoming a writer and what it takes to remain ascendant in a field where technology advances at breakneck speed. From the moment Fields, an elementary school kid, put pencil to paper and wrote “I like to write,” his life had been about arranging the right words in the best possible order.

Fields’ work may require him to live in Connecticut, but he is as much a Southern writer as Faulkner and as romantic about his hometown as Thomas Wolfe was about Asheville.

At 13, Fields worked as a busboy at Russell’s Fish House in Carthage, which recently closed. Describing the restaurant in its heyday, he treats us to magical paragraphs that touch all the senses: “. . . Russell’s was the most clamorous place in creation — more deafening than any argument my sisters ever had, more ear-piercing than the hocking sounds made by my fifth-grade teacher, more thunderous than a Seaboard freight train when it trundled through town . . . Wooden chairs scraping angrily on cement floors. Customers’ animated conversations and guffaws reverberating off cinderblock walls . . . Flatware and platters clanging into busboys’ bins as they and the wait staff dashed about like running backs seeking holes in a defense.”

And like any good Southerner, Fields brings us home, mystified, as most of us are, by the relationship of the past to the present: “Stretches of U.S. 1 and U.S. 15-501 are now blighted by a sprawl of commercial establishments, stores and restaurants. Attempting a left turn without an illuminated green arrow can be risky business. Traffic planners debate solutions. Meanwhile, at certain times of day, dozens of cars idle, waiting to pass the busiest intersections.”

Fields’ writing is unfailingly lucid, exact, and engaging. What’s not obvious is that he’s worked over his prose until that “worked on” feeling is gone. His many readers will be the beneficiaries of that labor. 

Tea Leaf Astrologer

TEA LEAF ASTROLOGER

Pisces

February 19 – March 20

No, you’re not going crazy.
Yes, you know what you know. And, no, you don’t need to explain your so-called prophetic dreams to anyone (they’re not ready to hear them). Here’s what you should do: Cut ties with the friend who makes you feel like a doormat. Get clear on your boundaries — and honor them. And when the new moon graces your sign on March 18, inspiration for a fresh skin care routine could be the glow-up that you never saw coming. Or, maybe you did.

Tea leaf  “fortunes” for the rest of you:

Aries (March 21 – April 19) 

Try taking a cold shower. 

Taurus (April 20 – May 20)

Two words: leafy greens.

Gemini (May 21 – June 20)

You’ll know when you know.

Cancer (June 21 – July 22)

Make a date with the sunrise. 

Leo (July 23 – August 22)

The signs won’t be subtle. 

Virgo (August 23 – September 22)  

Pay attention to your jaw and shoulders. 

Libra (September 23 – October 22)

Put your playlist on shuffle and move your feet.

Scorpio (October 23 – November 21)

Pick up where you left off. 

Sagittarius (November 22 – December 21)

Prepare to surprise yourself. 

Capricorn (December 22 – January 19)

Work with the chaos. 

Aquarius (January 20 – February 18)

Explore a different vantage point.

Birdwatch

BIRDWATCH

A Feisty Little Bird

The active lifestyle of the brown-headed nuthatch

By Susan Campbell

If you have ever heard what seems to be a squeaky toy emanating from the treetops in the Sandhills or the Piedmont, you may have had an encounter with a brown-headed nuthatch. This bird’s small size and active lifestyle make it a challenge to spot, but once you know what to look and listen for, you will realize it is a common year-round resident.

Brown-headeds are about 4 inches long with grey backs, white bellies and, as the name suggests, brown heads. In this species, males are indistinguishable from females. Their coloration creates perfect camouflage against the tree branches where the birds forage in search of seeds and insects. Their oversized bill allows them to pry open a variety of seeds, as well as pine cones, and dig deep in the cracks of tree bark for grubs.

By virtue of their strong feet and sharp claws, brown-headed nuthatches can crawl head-first down the trunk of trees as easily as going up. Although they do not sing, these birds have a distinctive two-syllable squeak they may roll together if especially excited.

Brown-headed nuthatches do take advantage of feeders. They are very accustomed to people, so viewing at close range is possible, as are fantastic photo opportunities.

This species is one of our area’s smallest breeding birds. It’s a non-migratory resident, living as a family group for most of the year. Unlike its cousin, the white-breasted nuthatch, which can be found across the state, the brown-headed is a bird of mature pine forests. Brown-headeds are endemic to the Southeastern United States, from coastal Virginia through most of Florida and west to the eastern edge of Texas. Their range covers the historic reaches of the longleaf pine. However, this little bird has switched to using other species of pine such as loblolly and Virginia pine in the absence of longleafs.

Brown-headed nuthatches are capable of excavating their own nest hole in small dead trees in early spring. Because so few of the appropriate sized trees are available (due to humans tidying up the landscape), in recent years brown-headed nuthatches have taken to using nest boxes. However, unless the hole is small enough to exclude larger birds, such as bluebirds, they may be outcompeted for space. For this reason, the species is now one of concern across the Southeast, with populations in decline. In addition to reductions in breeding productivity, logging, fire suppression as well as forest fragmentation are causing significant challenges for this feisty little bird.

“Helper males” have been documented assisting parents with raising subsequent generations. Without unoccupied territory nearby, young males may consciously be choosing to stay with their parents in hopes that they may inherit their father’s breeding area over time. If this approach sounds at all familiar to bird enthusiasts in our region, it should. It’s similar to the strategy of the red-cockaded woodpecker, another well-known, albeit less abundant, inhabitant of Southeastern pine forests.

Sporting Life

SPORTING LIFE

The Gift of Time

Planning new adventures

“The best thing about hunting and  fishing, is that you don’t
have to actually do it to enjoy it. You can go to bed every night thinking about how much fun you had twenty years ago and it comes back clear as moonlight. It is a kind of immortality, because you’re doing it all over again.”
   
— Robert Ruark’s Africa

By Tom Bryant

I had been thinking right regularly about mortality and immortality, having been recently diagnosed with cancer. The folks at Duke University performed their miracle, and on my latest scan and workup the cancer had disappeared. When I asked the doc about limits I might have, she replied, “Nothing, you can do whatever you were doing before all this came about.” Naturally Linda, my bride, and I rejoiced, and on the way home from Duke, I was like a kid the day before Christmas.

That night as I was relaxing by the fire reading some old columns I had written years before, I determined that the plan for the immediate future was to categorize things I wanted to do in the field, and things that Linda would enjoy doing with me. I grabbed a yellow legal pad from my desk, and I was off and running.

The musings I had made years before when I was in my prime, climbing over obstacles rather than going around them, got my list started with a flurry.

Ages ago, it seems like, I used to goose hunt, Canada geese, that is. It was before the geese that migrated every year realized they really didn’t have to do that. The ones that used to come down from the frosty North and set up camp in the sunny South would lounge around enjoying all that fresh grass recently planted on golf courses and the fields full of winter wheat just ripe for the picking. But then spring and a little warmer weather would roll around, and it would be time to pack up and wing it back north.

I don’t know how it happened, but I can imagine it went something like this: A couple or three geese were lolling about munching lunch on the 14th green when one of them said, “Well, it’s about time to hit the road back to the old homestead.”

Another of the geese, maybe one with a little more mileage on him, spoke up. “Boys, I’ve been making that trip more times than you are old, and I just made up my mind that I’m gonna stay here this summer. Why do all that flying and wandering about when we have everything we need, plus some, right here? Y’all have a nice trip and I’ll see you next winter.”

Thus it started. Wild Canada geese that were as skittish as bobcats overnight became residents and all but demanded their entitlement — fresh grass for everyone.

That’s what’s happening now. What I wrote about in those aged scribblings that dotted outdoor magazines and sporting pages in newspapers was when the noble Canada goose was a worthy game bird, worth all the notoriety given.

Every January, for about eight or 10 years in the late ’70s and early ’80s, my good friend Tom Bobo and I would head to the Eastern Shore of Maryland and the little town of Easton to goose hunt on the famous Plimhimmon plantation, located on the Tred Avon River close to Oxford, Maryland. The owner was a crusty old guy by the name of Bill Meyers. His land was about 400 acres with the river on one side and an estuary off the Chesapeake Bay on the other. It was as if it was made for goose hunting. We were in high cotton, so to speak, in those days, hunting with the likes of such notables as Bing Crosby, Ted Williams and Phil Harris.

So how can I follow up those ancient days of classic goose hunting in these modern times? Easy, first thing to do is head to Easton and get the lay of the land today. Then the plans will follow.

I made a few notes on my pad and moved on to the next adventure.

When I was a youngster growing up in Pinebluff, I had the best of all worlds as far as outdoor living was concerned. If not camping with the Scouts from old Troop 206, I was scouting on my own, finding likely places to explore. I would hook my Red Flyer wagon to my bicycle, loaded with camping gear, and head to the woods.

That was my first experience pulling a trailer, and I never forgot it. Decades later, the year I retired from my day job, Linda and I bought a little compact Airstream Bambi travel trailer, hooked it up to a Toyota FJ Cruiser, also new that year, and started the trip of a lifetime. Where to? North to Alaska, of course. We were on that special adventure for two months and drove over 11,000 miles.

Since that first epic experience, we have towed and camped in the Bambi several times across the country and to Florida during the winters. In Florida we would camp at a small scale campground on Chocoloskee Island, just south of Everglades City. Linda called it our fish camp.

In the summers we tried — and were usually successful — to camp at Huntington Beach State Park in South Carolina one week out of every month.

I made a few more notes on my pad, put another log on the fire and thought about what it would take to get the little “Stream” back on the road. Not that much really. A detailed check at the Airstream place in Greensboro, maybe a new set of tires, then rig her for running sometime in the late spring.

Linda had gone on to bed and I was ready to hit the hay myself, so I banked the fire to be ready for the next morning and quietly moved down the hall to bed trying not to wake her. Lying there snug under the covers, I thought back over the last year-and-a-half.

Cancer puts a hold on everything. Every day during my experience with the disease we waited for the other shoe to drop, not knowing if it was going to be terminal or just debilitating. The waiting was the hard part.

But just like Robert Ruark said in his book on Africa, I’ve had a lot of experiences in our great outdoors, and thinking about them from 20 or more years ago and reliving them all over again is a kind of immortality.

Now, amazingly, the good Lord, along with the wonderful health professionals at Duke, have made it possible to continue my adventures, hopefully for a few more years. I put together a good start sitting by the fire.

I heard the ship’s clock in the den ding six bells, 11 o’clock. Time to sleep and dream good dreams. 

Character Study

CHARACTER STUDY

Pots and Pennywhistles

And peddling positive energy

By Sharon McNeill

You could say Michael Mahan is a soulful guy. Potter, flute and pennywhistle player, artist, writer, amateur archaeologist, father, husband … well, you get the idea.

Mahan makes all sorts of beautiful wood-fired and electric kiln pots, but his “soul pots” have something special about them. Round, with a small hold, they have a Vidalia onion shape — similar to the Native American seed pot — with decorations on a band at the mouth. A sign in the shop says, “This pot is meant to be placed so that people who visit your home can pick it up. It is designed to absorb and release positive energies of love and kindness.” Since they aren’t glazed inside, only love and kindness can go into them because oil or water might seep out.

“People like the way they feel,” he says. “And if you need some positive energy, they can give it.”

Mahan was born in Wisconsin, grew up in Miami, and came to Waxhaw, North Carolina, when he was in the 10th grade. He went to N.C. State to study engineering, but switched to writing and editing. After graduation he landed a job at the Courier-Tribune in Asheboro, where he wrote a story about some potters in Seagrove. That was all it took. He quit his job and went back to school full-time to study pottery.

Mahan created the “soul pot” with his ex-wife, Jane Braswell — who decorated the band at the top — when they founded Wild Rose Pottery on N.C. 705 in Whynot, south of Seagrove. After the couple divorced, Mahan built his current studio, From the Ground Up, at 172 Crestwood Road, in Robbins. One day, poking around the property with his kids, he discovered a few old pottery shards. The artifacts were from the 1890s when the land belonged to another potter, W.J. Stewart, who is buried a few hundred yards away from the studio. Stewart made functional salt-glazed pots in a wood-fired groundhog kiln, including the jugs he used for the whiskey he distilled and sold.

Trees are an artistic theme in Mahan’s work, representing strength and connection, both to the land and its occupants. “When I’m carving a full tree on a pot, I can get lost in it and not take a break for an hour or more,” he says. “The more branches I make, the more complicated it becomes, hunting limbs that need another branch, or perhaps there’s one that broke off and is left hanging. I get to decide. Occasionally, I’ll make a dead tree. I love the beauty of a dead tree, still serving a purpose — as a perch for a bird, a landmark, a memory.”

Once, while selling his wares at a street festival, Mahan was attracted to a bamboo flute in a booth nearby. With a touch of Irish in his blood, the simple instrument led him to National Public Radio’s The Thistle and Shamrock show. Another potter, David Stuempfle, advanced the musical cause by teaching Mahan a couple of tunes on the flute.

Mahan’s second wife, Mary Holmes, is bona fide Irish, and she organized a trip for the couple to the old country, where they visited Clonmacnoise, a monastic site founded in the 6th century in County Offaly along the River Shannon. Leaning against an old stone wall inside one of the ruins, Mahan played the same melody that he played for Mary on their first date. Feeling a strong connection to the land and the people, they built a pottery studio in Limerick and travel there for two months every summer.

Pottery is something of a family affair for the Mahans. Two of his children have taken up the art form. His youngest son, Levi, is a potter who lives in Brooklyn and shows his work in the gallery in Robbins. His daughter, Chelsea, lives in Pensacola, Florida, where she teaches pottery. Eldest son Wil, is the only one of the children not in the family business — he sells real estate in Asheboro.

The word for soul in Irish is anam, and whether by flute or fire or the land he lives on, Mahan seems to have found it. 

Tea Leaf Astrologer

TEA LEAF ASTROLOGER

Aquarius

January 20 – February 18

Buckle up, space cadet. The new moon eclipse on February 17 is going to be what the normies call “a moment” — especially for you. Yes, you’re different. We know, we know. But when you’re done trying on hats for the thrill of it, a seismic shift will occur in the quirky little core of your being. Reinvention is no longer performative. It’s the only path forward. Believe it or not, the world is ready for the weirdest version of you. Are you ready?

Tea leaf “fortunes” for the rest of you:

Pisces (February 19 – March 20)

Wear the lacy blue ones.

Aries (March 21 – April 19) 

A little dab will do.

Taurus (April 20 – May 20)

Milk and honey, darling.

Gemini (May 21 – June 20)

Don’t forget the reservations.

Cancer (June 21 – July 22)

Three words: breakfast in bed.

Leo (July 23 – August 22)

You can buy yourself flowers.

Virgo (August 23 – September 22)  

Order the fancy entrée.

Libra (September 23 – October 22)

Just tell them how you feel already.

Scorpio (October 23 – November 21)

Edible is the operative word.

Sagittarius (November 22 – December 21)

Try flirting with a deeper perspective.

Capricorn (December 22 – January 19)

Hint: polka dots.

Golftown Journal

GOLFTOWN JOURNAL

The Scottish Invasion

Planting the roots of golf

By Lee Pace

Golf clubs across America in the early 1900s were frequently governed by fair-complected men who rolled their Rs, said aye and nae and wee, and spoke fondly of The Macallan and a dish from their homeland made of sheep’s innards.

Here in the Sandhills, the memory of Donald Ross, a native of Dornoch on the northeast coast of Scotland, is revered.

Hope Valley Country Club in Durham is 100 years old and has had a member of the Crichton family from Monifieth on its golf shop payroll every single day of its existence. That’s right — some 36,500 days (plus leap years) of paying Marshall and his offspring David and Maggie.

Other early Scotsmen who moved to America to carve a career in the golf business and landed in the Carolinas were Ralph Miner of New Bern Country Club, David Ferguson at Greenville (S.C.) Country Club, and Frank Clark of Asheville Country Club and later Biltmore Forest Country Club.

“You had to listen carefully,” Greenville golfer Heyward Sullivan said of Ferguson. “He talked through a thick burr. He used to say, ‘Laddie, the short game will help your long game, nay the long game will never help the short game.’ He wanted you to practice chipping and putting.” 

Hope Valley member Joe Robb once said of Marshall Crichton, the club’s first pro when it opened with a Ross-designed course in 1926: “A Scotsman replete with a brogue, bandy legs, a caustic tongue and a terrific sense of humor. Marshall’s brogue was so thick that his cuss words often sounded like music.”

One of the most fascinating stories of Scotsmen coming to America was that of the Findlay brothers — Alex and Fred. There were eight boys in the Findlay family of Montrose, and all of them learned to play golf. Alex was the oldest and in 1886 became the first golfer to ever post a 72 in competition. The next winter he left Scotland for America at the behest of fellow Montrose resident Edward Millar, who had established Merchiston Ranch near Fullerton in Nebraska in February 1887.

The so-called “Apple Tree Gang” at St. Andrew’s Golf Club in Yonkers, New York, is roundly credited with playing the first game of golf in America in February 1888. In truth, Alex Findlay had laid out a six-hole course at Merchiston Ranch by April 1887, played it with clubs he brought from Scotland, and sought to spread the virtues of golf in the Wild, Wild West. Some said as the game grew in popularity that he was the “Father of American Golf.”

“The people round about used to come and laugh at us for running after a white ball,” Findlay said in a 1926 interview with the London Evening Standard. “But at length I asked them to have a game and soon afterwards they were all keen to play. Before very long a golf club had been formed and the first steps to making America a golfing country had been taken.”

Meanwhile, Fred moved to Australia in 1909 with his wife in search of a warmer climate for their son, Freddie, who suffered from tuberculosis. Fred soon found work as head pro and course superintendent at Metropolitan Golf Club and stayed there for 14 years. Unfortunately, his son died at a young age despite the advantages of the warmer climate. Findlay’s daughter met a young man from Richmond, Virginia, who had served in the Navy during World War I and traveled to Australia as a merchant seaman.

Ruth Findlay married Raymond “Ben” Loving in 1924. They moved to Richmond and Fred followed them. Findlay knew Australian golfers Joe Kirkwood and Victor East, who had ventured to the States to play golf and give exhibitions, and both spoke highly of the New World and the opportunity for an accomplished golfer. His brother Alex cabled him from America, “Come at once.” 

“I came to Richmond to visit my daughter,” Fred said. “They were talking about building a course there. I loved the game, and I was interested in anything that would make an honest dollar.”

Findlay quickly established himself as a talented golf architect in the mid-Atlantic region. Though his career would not prove as prolific as that of Ross, who is credited with some 385 course designs in the eastern United States, he was “the man” in the state of Virginia, designing some 40 courses.

One of his early works that remains today is the James River Course at the Country Club of Virginia, in Richmond. He took 14 holes from a plan drawn by William Flynn and added four more, and supervised the construction of the course that opened in 1928. The collaboration certainly worked out well, as the James River course was the venue for the 1955 and 1975 U.S. Amateur Championships.

His most revered and solo design opened one year later — Farmington Country Club in Charlottesville. Findlay made his first visit to the site just west of the campus of the University of Virginia in September 1927, and the course opened two years later.

Findlay was given a special piece of ground when a group of Charlottesville business leaders decreed the town should have a sports and social club. The site had been under the purview of 13 owners over nearly two centuries, dating to 1744, when King George II of England conveyed 4,753 acres to Michael Holland of Hanover County. A manor house built in 1785 and expanded in 1803 under plans drawn by President Thomas Jefferson would be refurbished and expanded to serve as the clubhouse.

Findlay surveyed the misty mountain range to the north and west that would one day become the Shenandoah National Park. He traversed the slopes and hollows and in his mind pictured the flight of a golf ball cracked from his wooden-shafted mashie, soaring through the crystalline air and across a winding brook. He scanned the hillsides and factored the flow of fairways amid the Scotch broom running rampant.

“I just walk around and commune with nature in her visible forms,” Findlay said of his process. “And then, as if by inspiration alone, it comes to me suddenly, and I see the finished course far more plainly and vividly than if it were charted on cold blueprint paper. It has a character. And then I set out to make it what I have dreamed of — to materialize my vision. Nature herself gives me most of my ideas.”

Loving helped his father-in-law build the course and stayed on for half a century as the club’s general manager. After years living in Richmond, Fred moved back to Charlottesville and spent his later years playing golf, fishing, hunting and painting.

Newspaperman Ross Valentine wrote of Findlay at age 90 in October 1961: “To see Fred Findlay, clear-eyed, lean-muscled and fit as a fiddle on the eve of his 90th birthday, with whipcord and steel wrists hit a golf ball straight down the middle, was inspiring.”

Findlay immersed himself in the idyllic settings of Farmington and the surrounding countryside, capturing many in paintings that hang in the clubhouse today. The Findlay Room is decorated with three scenes from the 1950s and early ’60s — one of the third hole of the golf course and two with pastures, distant mountains and the lakes where he frequently cast a fishing line.

Findlay died on March 9, 1966, at age 94, in a Charlottesville nursing home, where he had recently moved following a period of declining health.

“Aye, Laddie,” the old Scotsman said, “if I had my life to live again, I wouldna’ change one day. The world owes me na’thing. My life has been coupled with nature, and I am sure there is nothing that keeps one closer to God.”

PinePitch February 2026

PINEPITCH

February 2026

Sunrise Sounds

The beat goes on for the entire month of February at the Sunrise Theater, 250 N.W. Broad St., Southern Pines:

• G. Love & Special Sauce, a hip hop and blues band, takes the stage on Friday, Feb. 6, from 8 to 11 p.m. Reserved seating is $39.50. VIP add-ons like drinks, a pre-show dinner and souvenir poster crank up the cost. Tickets and info at
www.sunrisetheater.com.

• On Valentine’s Day (come on, all y’all know the date) Ashes & Arrows will perform from 7 to 10 p.m. The combo Asheville, N.C./New Zealand group, earned standing ovations from Howie Mandel, Heidi Klum, Sofia Vergara and Simon Cowell on America’s Got Talent. General admission is $30 and premium seating is $49. Tickets and info at www.sunrisetheater.com.

• The Arts Council of Moore County’s classic concert series presents WindSync on Monday, Feb. 16, from 7:30 to 9 p.m. The wind quintet featuring Garrett Hudson (flute), Noah Kay (oboe), Graeme Steele Johnson (clarinet), Kara LaMoure (bassoon) and Anni Hochhalter (horn) frequently breaks the fourth wall between musicians and audience performing pieces ranging from revitalized standards, folk, songbook to freshly written works. Tickets are $37.45. For more info go to www.mooreart.org/CCS.

• The Rodney Marsalis Philadelphia Big Brass celebrates Mardi Gras at the Sunrise on Wednesday, Feb. 18, from 7 to 9 p.m.  The RMPBB had its beginnings on the streets of New Orleans. The group created its concert format, breaking the usual barriers between audience and performers at the advice of family patriarch Ellis Marsalis. Tickets start at $39 with the VIP package tipping the scales at $108. Tickets and info at www.sunrisetheater.com.

Not a Clue

From game board to the stage, Clue, The Musical opens at the Encore Center, 160 E. New Hampshire Ave., Southern Pines, on Friday, Feb. 13, at 7 p.m. Now a fun-filled musical, Clue brings the world’s best-known suspects to life and invites the audience to help solve the mystery of who killed Mr. Boddy, in what room, and with what weapon. There are additional performances on Feb. 14, 20 and 21. Tickets are $21 and $29, plus fees. For more information go to www.encorecenter.net.

Opening Night

The opening reception for Liz Apodaca’s exhibition “Carousel of Color” is Friday, Feb. 6, from 5 to 7 p.m. at the Artists League of the Sandhills, 129 Exchange St., Aberdeen. Apodaca began painting as a 6-year-old in El Paso, Texas, mentored by her grandfather. The exhibit will hang through Feb. 26. For additional information go to www.artistleague.org.

It's Been a Struggle

Acclaimed historian Jon Meacham will be in town to discuss his new book, American Struggle: Democracy, Dissent, and the Pursuit of a More Perfect Union, at the Moore Montessori Community School Auditorium, 255 S. May Street, Southern Pines, on Friday, Feb. 20, at 6 p.m. In this rich and diverse collection Meacham covers a wide spectrum of U.S. history, from 1619 to the 21st century, with primary source documents that take us back to critical moments when Americans fought over the meaning and the direction of the national experiment. For tickets and information go to www.ticketmesandhills.com.

All That Jazz

The Sandhills Community College Jazz Band celebrates “Takin’ a Chance on Love!” at 6:30 p.m. on Monday, Feb. 9. The swing and jazz favorites from the 1920s to the 1980s will fill BPAC’s Owens Auditorium, 3395 Airport Road, Pinehurst. For more information and tickets go to www.ticketmesandhills.com.

Didn't We Almost Have It All?

BPAC continues is tribute series with Nicole Henry singing Whitney Houston hits at Owens Auditorium, 3395 Airport Road, Pinehurst, on Friday, Feb. 20, at 7 p.m. One of the jazz world’s most acclaimed vocalists, Henry brings the legendary music of Houston to life with her dynamic vocal prowess, impeccable phrasing and soul-stirring emotional resonance. A winner of the Soul Train Award for Best Traditional Jazz Performance, her album The Very Thought of You climbed to No. 7 on Billboard’s Jazz Chart. For tickets and information go to www.ticketmesandhills.com.

Awakened With a Kiss

An international cast of world-renowned ballet artists from 15 countries brings Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky’s unforgettable music, choreography by Marius Petipa and the magic of Princess Aurora together in The Sleeping Beauty. Follow the princess from her christening to her century-long slumber and her awakening by a true lover’s kiss on Monday, Feb. 23, at 7 p.m. in BPAC’s Owens Auditorium, 3395 Airport Road, Pinehurst. For more information and tickets go to www.ticketmesandhills.com.

Masterworks

The Carolina Philharmonic under the direction of Maestro David Michael Wolff will present an evening of classical masterworks at BPAC’s Owens Auditorium, 3395 Airport Road, Pinehurst, on Saturday, Feb. 28, at 7:30 p.m. For additional information and tickets call (910) 687-0287 or go to www.carolinaphil.org.

At the Horse Park

It may be cold outside, but it’s heating up at the Carolina Horse Park, 2814 Montrose Road, Raeford. On Saturday, Feb. 14, there is the Pipe Opener II combined training with dressage and show jumping. On Saturday, Feb. 21, and Sunday, Feb. 22, there will be mounted games, and the Sedgefield Hunter/Jumper show is Friday, Feb. 27. It continues through March 1. Food trucks abound. For more information go to www.carolinahorsepark.com.

Dissecting a Cocktail

DISSECTING A COCKTAIL

Naked & Famous

Story and Photograph by Tony Cross

In 2014, famed New York City bar Death & Co. released its first cocktail book, Modern Classic Cocktails. It was the book that bartenders had to have and one of the best cocktail books ever printed.

One of the cocktails inside, the Naked & Famous, was created by bartender Joaquín Simo in 2011. The drink immediately caught my eye. The Naked and Famous is an Indie rock duo from New Zealand that had a hit song at the time of the drink’s creation, and I appreciated the fact that I wasn’t the only bartender in the world who tended to name drinks after bands and songs. The specs were interesting, too, with equal parts mezcal, Aperol, Yellow Chartreuse liqueur and lime juice. Why did this seem familiar? According to Simo, “This cocktail is the bastard child born out of an illicit Oaxacan love affair between the classic Last Word (a gin-based cocktail) and the Paper Plane, a drink Sam Ross created at the West Village bar Little Branch.”

I once read somewhere that Simo chose Aperol and Yellow Chartreuse instead of Campari and Green Chartreuse because he wanted lower ABV liqueurs to avoid overpowering the mezcal. The cocktail became an instant classic, and I put it on my outside patio bar menu, where it sold like crazy. These days if anyone hears the words “Naked and Famous,” it’s the drink — and not the band — that comes to mind. 

Specifications

3/4 ounce Del Maguey Chichicapa mezcal

3/4 ounce Yellow Chartreuse

3/4 ounce Aperol

3/4 ounce fresh lime juice

Execution

Shake all ingredients with ice, then strain into a chilled cocktail coupe. No garnish.

Focus on Food

FOCUS ON FOOD

A Proper Mess

A different take on strawberries and cream

Story and Photograph by Rose Shewey

To be perfectly blunt, England hasn’t exactly been at the forefront of culinary excellence. May I be forgiven by those who cherish its cuisine. Perhaps it’s simply that English chefs need assistance choosing more appetizing names. Who wants to dig into a serving of spotted dick? Or take a hearty bite of rumbledethumps or bubble and squeak?

Eton mess, by comparison, is a relatively tame designation — while still managing to be properly unflattering — for a classic, delicious dessert made of berries, whipped cream and meringue. It may be messy, but it’s ingenious in its simplicity with a pleasing balance of flavors and textures. For all the mockery the English endure for their lack of appetizing food — which isn’t completely justified — they sure got this one right.

It is a safe assumption that the boys at Eton College, a prestigious boarding school in England and namesake for this tasty treat, did not suffer many hardships back in the day — and likely still don’t. While the genesis of “Eton mess” is hotly debated, no one seems to argue that it was, in fact, first served to the students in Berkshire about a century ago, thus painting a picture of a pretty sweet school life.

The least plausible but most popular account of the dessert’s origin is the story of pavlovas being served at an annual cricket match in the 1930s between Eton and the boys from Harrow School when a clumsy, or hungry, Labrador knocked over the desserts and smashed them to the ground. Undeterred, the Eton boys dug into the tasty “mess.” Whether Eton mess was a happy accident or a calculated move, we’re loving it all the same.

Eton Mess with Raspberry Coulis

(Serves 4)

5 ounces fresh or frozen raspberries

1 teaspoon freshly squeezed lemon juice

1 pound fresh strawberries

1 tablespoon sweetener, such as granulated sugar or honey, divided

4 ounces heavy cream

1 teaspoon rosewater (optional)

4 ounces Greek yogurt

5 ounces meringues, store bought or homemade

Make the Coulis

If using frozen raspberries, allow to thaw for about 20 minutes at room temperature. Add raspberries to a tall bowl together with the lemon juice, and puree, using an immersion blender. To get an extra fine sauce, strain through a sieve, transfer to an airtight container and refrigerate.

Make the Eton Mess

Quarter strawberries and add to a large bowl together with 1/2 tablespoon of sweetener. Mash up about half the berries with a fork and set aside. Combine cream with 1/2 tablespoon sugar and rosewater (if using), and whip until firm enough to form soft peaks, then fold in the yogurt. Add cream-yogurt mixture to the fruit and fold it in. Crumble meringue over top and drizzle with raspberry coulis. Serve right away.