Focus on Food

Focus on Food

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Sláinte to Stew

The king of Irish cuisine

Story and Photograph by Rose Shewey

At the height of the Celtic Tiger, a time when Ireland’s economic growth was the envy of every Western nation, I was offered a job on the Emerald Isle. It was a no-brainer. I packed my bags, said my goodbyes and off I went to live and work in Ireland. To be more exact, I set up shop in picturesque Dún Laoghaire just south of Dublin, a town with a pretty port and a laid-back vibe and, as it turned out, right around the corner from Bono’s seaside residence — true story.

After my two-year stint there I can confidently share that a bunch of stereotypes floating about Ireland and the Irish have at least a couple of grains of truth to them. For one, Guinness does taste different on the island. Take this from a wine enthusiast. If I can tell the difference, you can, too. And, yes, drinking is a Celtic national sport. It is socially acceptable to drink at pretty much any point in time, with the exception of the time spent at your place of work — a minor constraint, but fear not, there is always lunch hour. So, that’s that.

More importantly — and this is a delicate one as far as stereotypes go — let’s talk about the legendary Irish cuisine. You’ve never heard of it? My point exactly. If the choices were soda bread and colcannon, I’d say Irish cooking was completely lost on me. But, fortunately, there is one dish the Irish know how to pull off. Their one saving grace — subjectively speaking, of course —  is a hearty stew.

A purist at heart and always in search of the most authentic and original version of a dish, I made a couple of discoveries. To begin with, Ireland has as many “classic” and “traditional” Irish stew recipes as it has pubs. That’s a lot. Andrew Coleman, author of The Country Cooking of Ireland, probably nailed it with his attempt to capture the true nature of this recipe. His version simply calls for four ingredients: mutton, potatoes, parsley and onion. Irish stew, in days long gone, would have consisted of what people had on hand — mainly potatoes. If they were fortunate enough to have meat to add to the stew, they’d call it a feast.

That said, the most memorable Irish stew I have tasted was at the Guinness brewery in Dublin. A little bit richer and bolder than its rural counterparts, the Guinness beef stew may not be the most historically accurate rendition of this celebrated dish, but it is by far the most satisfying.

 

Irish Beef Stew with Guinness

(Adapted from The Official Guinness Cookbook, serves 4-6)

2 tablespoons olive oil

2 pounds chuck steak, cubed

2 onions, sliced

2 celery stalks, finely chopped

5 carrots, cut into large chunks

2 tablespoon all-purpose flour

1 bottle Guinness Draught Stout (440 milliliters)

1 cup beef stock

2 tablespoons apple jelly

2 tablespoons tomato paste

2 teaspoons prepared mustard

2 sprigs fresh thyme

2 bay leaves

8 ounces baby potatoes

Salt and pepper, to taste

In large skillet, heat oil and brown meat in batches, about 10 minutes per batch. Set meat aside, then add onion, celery and carrots to the skillet and cook until slightly softened, about 5 minutes. Sprinkle vegetables with flour, stir and cook for about 2 minutes, add Guinness and beef stock along with the remaining ingredients, except for the potatoes. Add meat back to the skillet, cover with a lid and simmer for 2 hours. Lastly, add potatoes and continue to simmer for an additional hour. Serve with chopped parsley and bread.  PS

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

In the Spirit

In the Spirit

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Dissecting a Cocktail

The Daiquiri

By Tony Cross

It’s hard for me to pick favorites in the cocktail realm, but I would be lying through my teeth if I didn’t say that the daiquiri is near and dear to my heart. It will forever be underrated. One of the simplest, yet most complicated cocktails to master, the daiquiri is a telltale way of judging how good (or satisfactory) your bartender is.

Dating back to 1898 in Cuba, the daiquiri was created by Jennings S. Cox, a mining engineer from New York. Cox threw the drink together with Bacardi rum, lemon, sugar and ice. He first called the drink a “rum sour,” but at the suggestion of a fellow engineer, later changed it to “daiquiri,” the name of a beach near Santiago de Cuba. The daiquiri recipe that is used today was printed in Charles H. Baker’s 1939 book, The Gentleman’s Companion, and is made using white rum, lime juice and sugar.

For a classic daiquiri, you need light Cuban rum, which is impossible to get here in the U.S., so use whatever rum you prefer. With that said, a quick word on the specs: Whether you’re using light or dark rum, try to opt for something higher proof, especially if you’re using simple syrup as the sugar. Simple syrup contains water, so watering down an 80 proof rum will yield, in my opinion, lackluster results. If you only have access to a lower proof rum, use a 2:1 ratio simple syrup or use granulated sugar instead. 

 

Specifications

2 ounces rum

3/4 ounce lime juice

1/2 ounce simple syrup (2:1) or 1 tablespoon granulated sugar

4 drops salt solution (4:1) (optional)

 

Directions

In a cocktail shaker, combine all ingredients, add ice, and shake until vessel is ice cold. Strain into a chilled coupe glass. No garnish is necessary. If using granulated sugar, you may shake ingredients first without ice to dilute sugar into liquids.   PS

Tony Cross owns and operates Reverie Cocktails, a cocktail delivery service that delivers kegged cocktails for businesses to pour on tap — but once a bartender, always a bartender.

Character Study

Character Study

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Portrait of an Artist

Getting the expression right

By Emilee Phillips

Wet hands glide across a lump of drab earth. They’re sticky and itching to go to work. It takes 2,200 degrees to transform clay into a sculpture, firing it into a form waiting to be finished, then seen.

The main studio is in the basement. Light coats of dust cover the floor, and buckets line the walls holding the raw materials of creativity. It’s utilitarian, not glamorous. The beauty lies in the fingertips of the artists.

Luke Huling, a professor of visual arts at Sandhills Community College, is always making something. Originally from Pennsylvania, Huling has moved wherever his jobs take him. He earned his Master of Fine Arts in ceramics from Indiana University, followed by residencies at the LUX Center for the Arts in Nebraska and the Arrowmont School of Arts and Crafts in Tennessee. He’s been teaching at Sandhills for three years.

“I feel like I’m never 100 percent complacent with what I’m doing, but I feel like that makes a good artist because it means you’re always working. Always creating,” says Huling, who spends 12 hours a day teaching, sculpting or grading his students.

Ceramic art involves first sculpting the work, and then finishing it with paint and glazing. “I love being in the moment — having the ability to change whatever I want,” says Huling. He’s made everything from tabletop-sized works to life-sized sculptures. Neither texture nor detail is overlooked. Each piece evolves as Huling labors over the tiniest area until he achieves his desired effect. He often creates in series where repetition forms the connective tissue, distinguishing each individual sculpture by its emotion. Depending on its size, a piece can take him up to a month to complete.

Fascinated by human psychology, Huling explores the “emotional façades” most people hide behind. Being authentic is something he strives for. He uses a mirror to get the micro details just right in the expressions he’s modeling. “Humans are complicated,” he says with a grin, not discounting himself.

While he laughs about it now, Huling admits his mother put him in art classes as a child because his brother was athletic and he wasn’t. “Art stuck with me,” he says. “That was what I was good at.”

Prior to pursuing a career in the arts, Huling studied dental hygiene and credits the experience with helping him portray facial anatomy in his work. That’s nothing new. Sculptors from Michelangelo to Rodin to the present day have relied on anatomical research in their art.

In his most recent work, “Molted Mindset,” you’ll see faces being pinched by lobsters and other crustaceans. He uses the sea creatures to convey that even in times of stress you’re growing. The stimulus for a lobster to grow is stress or pain. He leaves the analogy open for the viewer to interpret, with each sculpture having a slightly different facial expression.

Left & Middle: Molted Mindset IV. Stoneware, underglaze, glaze. 18 x15 x16 inches. (Photographs courtesy of Luke Huling)

Right: Molted Mindset III. Stoneware, underglaze, glaze. 18 x15 x16 inches. (Photograph courtesy of Luke Huling)

Walk into his studio at Sandhills Community College, and there’s a chance you’ll hear podcasts playing in the background. “I’m a figurative artist,” he says, “so any insight into other’s psyche is interesting to me.”

To find a measure of success in the art world, you have to be willing to go where the work is. Huling and his creations — along with 10 other ceramic artists — were recently featured in Indiana University’s Grunwald Gallery of Art in an exhibition called “Derivations.”

“The way the exhibition came together was lovely,” says Grunwald Gallery’s director, Linda Tien, adding that IU’s ceramics program is well known for its figurative work. “There was quite a range of ways the figure was represented in the gallery. Luke’s work added to the diversity.”

Some pieces can be heavy, both in the literal and metaphorical sense. Huling is known to flip the script when asked about his art.

“I usually ask people to tell me what they see first,” he says. “There’s no right or wrong answer in art. That’s the beauty of it, it doesn’t necessarily have to add up.”  PS

Emilee Phillips is PineStraw’s director of social media and digital content.

Creators of N.C.

Creators of N.C.

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Chapel Hill Magic

Daniel Wallace and a community of writers

By Wiley Cash

Photograph by Mallory Cash

It’s January, and I’m at the bar inside The Crunkleton on Franklin Street in Chapel Hill, where the winner of the 2023 Crook’s Corner Book Prize is about to be announced. Intrigue is high, but not for me. I served as judge for the prize, so I already know how the evening will turn out. I’m just thrilled to be among so many writers and book people for the first time since COVID shut down the public announcement of the prize not long after the 2020 winner was announced.

I’m also excited to be hanging out with my friend Daniel Wallace, who I met exactly 10 years before. How do I know it’s been 10 years? Because this is the 10th year of the Crook’s Corner prize, and I was the inaugural winner, and I met Daniel for the first time at the awards ceremony back in 2013. He’s been one of my favorite writers and people ever since.

In 2013 my wife and I had just moved back to North Carolina after my debut novel was published, and to win what has become an iconic Southern book prize meant the world to me, as did the kindness of the writers I met the night of the award ceremony, including Daniel, Lee Smith, Allan Gurganus, Elizabeth Spencer and Jill McCorkle. They made me feel like I belonged among them, and they set the tone for how I would treat and support the writers who came after me.

In the moments before this year’s prize winner is announced — it’s Texas native Bobby Finger for his excellent novel The Old Place — Daniel and I stand around the bar and catch up. I ask him about the upcoming March release of the paperback of his latest book, This Isn’t Going to End Well: The True Story of a Man I Thought I Knew, a nonfiction portrait of his brother-in-law William Nealy, who was well known as an impossibly cool outdoorsman who made a name as a cartoonist who drew paddling guides to countless white water rivers throughout the South. Daniel first met William when he was 12 and William was the cool, mysterious guy dating Daniel’s older sister Holly. To say that Daniel looked up to William is an understatement.

William died in 2001, and after Holly passed 10 years later Daniel discovered William’s journals while cleaning out their house. What he read inside changed his perception of William forever. Daniel’s book is the result of his attempts to make sense of William’s life and the effect it had on so many people, including Daniel.

I ask him what it was like to write a book of nonfiction after forging a career as a novelist. The crowd is growing in the bar, and we are talking over the noise of other conversations.

“I never wanted to do nonfiction,” Daniel says. “The joy for me in writing fiction is putting the characters in motion and seeing what one of them does, and how it affects the rest of the characters in the story. There’s this joy that I get from making discoveries while following my characters.”

“In writing about William, were you also discovering something?” I ask. “Was it similar to creating a character and getting to know him as you went along?”

Daniel sips his drink and thinks for a moment. “The process was similar to writing a novel even though I had all this material that was already there that I could just pick up and read. The character I was writing about — and I have to say that when I talk about William as a character I’m also talking about a person who was my brother-in-law and someone I grew up with — but when that person is part of your narrative, they do become a character. And even I became a character in this book.” He smiles. “Although I like to think of myself as being real. I don’t know what your impression of me is.”

My impression of Daniel Wallace has always been that he is not only real, but that he is also very kind and funny. Every time he sees my two daughters he has some type of trinket to give each of them, and he’s always gone out of his way to offer opportunities to other writers, including in 2015 when he invited me to serve as the Kenan Visiting Writer at UNC-Chapel Hill. As to his sense of humor, when I asked him for a sample syllabus, he sent me what he referred to as the “required syllabus for all creative writing students.” His novels were the only books on it.

My niece Laela, who’s a junior at the nearby North Carolina School of Science and Mathematics, is interested in publishing, so I’ve brought her along for the evening. When I introduce her to Daniel I tell her that I met him 10 years ago at the first Crook’s prize party and how that evening felt like the beginning of my career.

“It was a special night,” Daniel says wistfully. “Of course Wiley’s novel was the only submission that year, but we were all still really happy for him.”

We all laugh, but the conversation takes a serious turn when we reflect on what seems like the constant changes in Chapel Hill’s cultural landscape. Crook’s Corner is a great example. The restaurant opened just down Franklin Street in Carrboro in 1982 and quickly became a staple of the Southern food movement, garnering praise and culinary awards from publications and juries around the country. But, like many restaurants, Crook’s closed its doors during the pandemic, and for now they’re still closed, although there are rumors that it might reopen sooner rather than later.

Daniel followed William and Holly to Chapel Hill and moved there permanently in the early ’80s around the time Crook’s opened. He’s seen so many changes over the decades in a place that he chose because of its creative vibes and how welcoming it was to writers and artists.

“There was a simplicity to it then,” Daniel says. “Part of it I’m sure has to do with youth, but when you live in a place that doesn’t have a building over one-and-a-half stories tall, you feel bigger in that town, and you feel more real in a way that you might not feel now.”

Daniel had begun his undergraduate studies at Emory University, and when he transferred to Chapel Hill to be closer to William and Holly he found himself in a creative writing class led by Lee Smith.

“It was at 8 o’clock in the morning,” he says, “and of course Lee brought her trademark power, personality and joie de vivre to it, which made writing fun. And she was fun. I loved how she taught. It was an adventure with language and story and character that was very appealing to me.”

Daniel left UNC before receiving his degree and went to work for his father for two years in the import industry. But he couldn’t shake his desire to write, and he couldn’t forget his love for Chapel Hill.

“I moved back here because of the community,” Daniel says, “and because, of course, Holly and William were here, too. But a major part of that decision was that it’s hard to exaggerate the importance of going to Harris Teeter and seeing Lee Smith shopping. The life of a young writer looking out from this hole that they’re in is made so much brighter when you can see that real people have this real job, just like you want to do. You’re not intimidated as much by the possibility of entering that world when you have these roving mentors, these mentors that you haven’t even necessarily met yet, but you see them walking around. You see Doris Betts on the street corner, waiting for the light to change. It’s human, it makes writing a human act.”

The evening is almost over. The announcement has been made, and winner Bobby Finger has said a few words to the audience, as have I. I speak about the power of recognizing debut writers and how important it is to be a member of a community like the one Crook’s Corner and Chapel Hill’s writers have built over the years.

Daniel is gone by the time I step back into the audience. My niece and I find our coats and walk out onto Franklin Street, the cold winter air hitting our cheeks. I can see wonder in her face as we walk back to the car, something I’ve heard people refer to as the “Chapel Hill Magic,” the same thing Daniel felt in the early ’80s after riding his bike to The Cave to play pool with William.

The buildings are taller now, some of the old places have closed, and some of those old people are gone. But this little town, and people like Daniel Wallace, can still make you feel big.  PS

Wiley Cash is the executive director of Literary Arts at the University of North Carolina at Asheville and the founder of This Is Working, an online community for writers.

Southwords

Southwords

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Color Me Blue

But save me from mellow marzipan

By Ruth Moose

I just saw a purple car. Truly. Welch’s Grape Juice purple. A muscadine grape purple. And that made me think of the old poem about a purple cow. How I’d rather see one than be one. Well, I’d rather see a purple car than own one.

Or the French’s mustard-colored yellow car. Or the kiwi green baby SUV. Where do these colors come from? The chocolate (not brown) but Hershey’s chocolate-colored car. I once asked my friend, who had just bought a cute little sort of bronze-ish, mandarin-colored car what the dealer called it.

“Oh,” she said with a laugh, “it’s called green tangerine.”

Imagine at some black tie and evening gown function, handing your keys to a parking attendant and telling him, “It’s the green tangerine one.”

When my family and I lived in Charlotte, our next door neighbors were the Beans. Both their cars were, of course, green. The green bean cars. I don’t know if they bought green cars on purpose or just liked the color green. Does it matter?

My own first car was an Opel. A perky, polished, gleaming emerald green. I loved that car. It had spirit, and I mourned when we traded it in for a Ford Country Squire station wagon. A station wagon that hauled a camping trailer to parks and campgrounds from Maine to Georgia. (We never made it to Florida before our sons turned teenagers and outgrew the overhead bunk, making the whole outfit too tight a fit for four adult-sized humans.)

An automotive generation or so ago, when my car turned over 200,000 miles and I went to the dealer’s lot to look for a new one, I didn’t even have to wander among the parked beauties set out for my admiration, screaming “Buy me! Buy me!” I had already spotted mine when I drove in. Right there on the front row. My car: a Carolina blue sedan. It was meant for me. It called my name, and as long as I owned it, never gave me a moment’s concern, not one worry.

I didn’t even have to test drive it. Just pointed the car out to the salesman. He got the keys and opened the door suggesting that I, at the very least, should sit in the driver’s seat. Try it out. I didn’t have to. The color had already sold me. Of course she was named Caroline. In my family, whether we admit it or not, we do name our cars. My Aunt Pearl called her last Pontiac Esmeralda. A friend just introduced me to her sleek, new gray Subaru, “Joan Didion.” Another friend called her car Betsy Cupcake because once, after we had a couple of inches of really pretty fluffy snow, she looked out in her driveway where the little car stood with snow on its roof like icing. She said it looked like a big, fat cupcake.

My grandfather, one of those baptizing-in-the-river Baptist preachers, had traveled to his churches and revivals in Davidson, Montgomery and Stanly Counties on horseback and later in a buggy. When he got his first car, a model something or other Ford, he was a terrible driver. Fortunately, there were few cars on the road and fewer still on the backroads he traveled. The story goes that one time he came home tired and probably distracted, drove straight into the garage (which was known as the car shed), then proceeded to drive straight out the back wall of the garage, all the while yelling “Whoa, Nellie! Whoa!”

Nellie did not stop. Nellie had been the name for all the horses he owned — horses with enough sense to know when they were home.

Maybe we name our cars for the horses held captive under the hood. As for the colors, Lord only knows what’s coming next. We could always ask Nellie.  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.

Omnivorous Reader

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Omnivorous Reader

A Gift to Art and Us

The legacy of Fred Chappell

By Stephen E. Smith

Courage.

That noun rarely comes to mind when considering the attributes a writer should possess in abundance. But what a writer does — the act of creating through fiction, poetry, drama, etc. — is something anyone could do who has the heart, the skill, and the courage to do it. And courage is what Fred Chappell, North Carolina’s former poet laureate and career-long creative writing teacher, instilled in his students during his 40 years as a professor in the Master of Fine Arts program at UNC Greensboro.

Fred died on Jan. 4 at age 87, and I suspect he would find this highfalutin’ courage stuff a trifle excessive. He would laugh and shrug it off as so much puffery. But in fact, courage was Fred’s greatest gift to his students. They had to demonstrate the fortitude to survive his graduate writing workshops. If you couldn’t take the criticism, you had no business pursuing a writing career. Moreover, you’d be unlikely to take the chances necessary to produce art that’s compelling in its originality. 

Fred taught by example, demonstrating great courage as a writer from his early Southern gothic novels to his last line of poetry, taking his readers into unexpected precincts, exploring new ground within the context of traditional verse and prose, while always challenging and surprising and delighting his readers.

Of the more than 30 books and hundreds of uncollected stories, poems and literary essays that might be reviewed in this space, one book stands out as both traditional, experimental and uniquely ambitious — Midquest: A Poem — for which Fred was awarded the Bollingen Prize.

Originally published as four chapbooks — River, Wind Mountain, Bloodfire and Earthsleep — the poems (each volume is presented as a single poem composed of shorter poems) appeared from 1975 through 1980, when Fred was in his 30s. Constructed around the elements of water, wind, fire and earth, the work that comprised Midquest was a startling achievement following Fred’s first volume of poetry, World Between the Eyes. When other poets were playing it safe with carefully controlled collections of verse, Fred suddenly expanded the national poetic palette by employing a startling range of forms. Reviewers labeled Midquest “a verse-novel,” but such descriptions don’t capture the variety of exploration and the sense of adventure evident in each “poem” in the collection.

The arrival of Midquest had an effect on late 20th century audiences similar to that of Leaves of Grass on 19th century readers. Within a familiar format, there’s an explosion of energy and constant exploration, all of it mingled with Fred’s depth of knowledge, range of diction, and implacable intellectual curiosity. Fred lays it all on the line and he makes it work. Midquest could only have been written by a poet of extraordinary courage.

The poem “Firewood,” which appears in Bloodfire, is nothing less than astonishing. A stream-of-consciousness foray through the mind of a persona who is chopping wood, it’s demanding of readers in its humorous wordplay and levels of philosophic allusions. As the persona hacks away at the heart of oak, he muses in some of the densest language imaginable. Here’s a bit of “Firewood”:

. . . we can

even half read the dark that sucks the fire away

& swallows, hearth being dug out of earth &

overpowering entropy of earth clouds from the

beginning the wild root mass of fire, it was sun

jammed into dirt that raised the tree, Lucretius’

seed of fire ignis semina is seed semina mortuis

(dirt we rose from, dirt we’ll never forget)

of death in that same split second, moment

split by the man’s hand hard as an iron wedge . . . .

And so the poem goes for more than 450 lines that engage, delight, mock, question, enlighten, challenge, amuse, and befuddle the determined reader, all of it sustained by an energy that’s part elegiac, folkloric, spiritual, and droll. If “Firewood” is a trifle demanding of the reader, it’s emotionally immersing and immensely satisfying as a work of art.

I was out of the MFA program and publishing books of poetry when I read “Firewood.” The sheer brilliance of the work left me with the knowledge that I’d never achieve such excellence but that I’d be compelled to try, even if it took forever. Fred’s Midquest had relegated me and my fellow poets to the status of neighborhood rhymesters.

If “Firewood” demonstrates a degree of exclusivity, “Cleaning the Well” from River is generous and inclusive — a narrative poem about a boy lowered into a well to clean out years of accumulated detritus:

Two worlds there are. One you think

You know; the Other is the Well

In hard December down I went.

“Now clean it out good.” Lord, I sank

Like an anchor. My grand-dad leant

Above. His face blazed bright as steel. . . .

Beginning his descent into the unknown, the persona imagines:

Ribcage of drowned warlock gleaming,

Rust-chewed chain mail, or a plangent

Sunken bell tolling to the heart

Of Earth. (They’d surely chosen an art-

less child to sound the soundless dreaming . . . .

What does the poet find? He discovers random objects right out of the possibilities of life:

Twelve plastic pearls, monopoly

Money, a greenish rotten cat

Rubber knife, toy gun,

Clock guts, wish book, door key,

An indescribable female hat.

Hauled back to the surface, the poet muses:

I had not found death good.

“Down there I kept thinking I was dead.”

“Aw, you’re all right,” he said.

Fred followed Midquest with more than 25 books — novels, short story collections, and volumes of poetry — material crafted with his unique combinations of precision, intellect, generosity, and courage. But Midquest remains a singular masterpiece, a poem every lover of great literature should read and cherish.  PS

Stephen E. Smith graduated with an MFA in creative writing from UNC Greensboro in 1971. He was one of Fred Chappell’s students, and a friend. Apprentice House Press will publish Smith’s memoir, The Year We Danced, on May 7.

PinePitch March 2024

PinePitch March 2024

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Home Sweet Home

If you own a home in Pinehurst that’s 90 years old, or older, why don’t you put your castle up for consideration in the Historic Plaque Program? Sponsored by the Village Heritage Foundation, whose mission is to encourage the recognition, preservation and restoration of the village’s historic buildings, nominations are being accepted through April 15 for the class of 2024. Candidates may include residences, commercial, institutional or public buildings. Forms and information are available online at www.villageheritagefoundation.org and at the Tufts Archives, in the Given Memorial Library, 150 Cherokee Road, Pinehurst.

Curtain Call

There’s still time to get tickets for the Judson Theatre Company’s production of the coming-of-age, feel-good comedy Butterflies Are Free, starring Morgan Fairchild, at BPAC’s Owens Auditorium, 3395 Airport Road, Pinehurst. Opening night is Thursday, March 7, at 7 p.m. There are additional performances on Friday, March 8, at 8 p.m.; Saturday, March 9, at 2 p.m. and 8 p.m.; and Sunday, March, 10 at 3 p.m. For information and tickets go to www.judsontheatre.com or www.ticketmesandhills.com.

Eggstravaganza

Kids 12 and under will get a chance to meet and greet the Easter Bunny at his (hers? its?) egg hunt, beginning on Saturday, March 23, at 11 a.m., at the Campbell House Park, 482 E. Connecticut Avenue, Southern Pines. Basket-toting little ones must be accompanied by an adult. The EB will be posing for pictures. For more information call (910) 692-7376.

The Fab Four

Take a walk down Penny Lane and experience The Beatles any way you want at “Yesterday and Today: The Interactive Beatles Experience,” at BPAC’s Owens Auditorium, 3395 Airport Road, Pinehurst, on Friday, March 15, from 7 p.m. to 9 p.m.. The audience gets to choose the songs from the lads from Liverpool’s oeuvre as the show is happening. Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da. For information and tickets go to ticketmesandhills.com.

Mon Dieu, C’est Mort

Parisian private investigator Aimée Leduc has been framed for the murder of her daughter’s father — now she’s on the lam and must find the real killer to clear her name. New York Times bestselling author Cara Black will clue you in on her latest novel at The Country Bookshop, 140 N.W. Broad Street, Southern Pines, on Saturday, March 16, from 5-6 p.m. For information go to www.ticketmesandhills.com.

Women’s History Month

Buy some buttered popcorn and a white wine spritzer — or a shot of tequila — and settle in for a four-bagger of movies by female directors at the Sunrise Theater, 250 N.W. Broad Street, Southern Pines. How could you not start with Barbie, directed by Greta Gerwig? It shows on Thursday, March 7, at 7 p.m. Then, on Wednesday, March 13, watch Clueless, directed by Amy Heckerling. On Wednesday, March 20, American Honey, directed by Andrea Arnold, will run at 7 p.m. And last, but not least, on Thursday, March 28, Marie Antoinette, directed by Sophia Coppola, will light up the screen at 7 p.m. For information call (910) 420-2549 or visit www.sunrisetheater.com.

Doing 40 in a 25 Zone

Rondell Sheridan will have you laughing out loud when BPAC’s comedy series continues on Friday, April 5, at 7 p.m. at Owens Auditorium, 3395 Airport Road, Pinehurst. Best known for his role of Victor Baxter on the Disney Channel sitcom That’s So Raven, his one-man show, “If You’re Over 40 and You Know It, Clap Your Hands!” takes a hilarious look at the hurdles of life and love when you reach, you know, that age.

Knocking Out a Nocturne

Award-winning concert pianist Dr. Dominic Muzzi will highlight “Sunday with Chopin,” presented by Break a Leg Studios, on March 3 from 3 p.m. to 5 p.m., at the Village Chapel, 10 Azalea Road, Pinehurst. Tickets are $25 and can be purchased in advance or at the door. For more information go to www.tickettailor.com/events/breakalegstudios.

Bad Bogeys for a Good Cause

The 2024 Kelly Cup Golf Championship benefiting the Sandhills Children’s Center takes place on Monday, March 25, at 9 a.m., at the Forest Creek Golf Club, 100 Forest Creek Drive, Pinehurst. Teams must register, and space is limited. There will a lunch following golf, along with auctions of golf rounds and trips. For more information call (910) 692-3323.

You’re Killing Me

And speaking of women . . . the Sandhills Woman’s Exchange will present a dinner theater murder mystery titled “Drop Dead Disco” by the Encore Theatre Players on Wednesday, March 6, at 5 p.m., and again on Sunday, March 10, also at 5 p.m., at the Pine Crest Inn, 50 Dogwood Road, Pinehurst. The cost is $60 per person, and there will be a cash bar. For additional information call (910) 295-4677 or visit www.sandhillswe.org.

League of Women Voters

On Tuesday, March 26, the Moore County League of Women Voters will host its 40th anniversary celebration at 11:30 a.m. at Forest Creek Country Club, 200 Meyer Farm Drive, Pinehurst. The luncheon will feature guest speaker Jennifer Watson, a former mayor of Charlotte and co-lead for the Carter Center’s Strengthening Democracy Project honoring the life and legacy of Rosalynn Carter. Tickets are $55. For more info go to www.lwvmc.org.

March Bookshelf

March Bookshelf

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March Books

FICTION

Finding Margaret Fuller, by Allison Pataki

Young, brazen, beautiful and unapologetically brilliant, Margaret Fuller accepts an invitation from Ralph Waldo Emerson, the celebrated Sage of Concord, to meet his coterie of enlightened friends. There she becomes “the radiant genius and fiery heart” of the Transcendentalists, a role model to a young Louisa May Alcott, an inspiration for Nathaniel Hawthorne’s Hester Prynne and the scandalous Scarlet Letter, a friend to Henry David Thoreau as he ventures out to Walden Pond . . . and a muse to Emerson. From Boston to the gritty streets of New York she defies conventions time and again. When the legendary editor Horace Greeley offers her an assignment in Europe, Margaret makes history as the first female foreign news correspondent, mingling with luminaries like Frédéric Chopin, William Wordsworth, George Sand and others. In Rome she finds a world of passion, romance and revolution, taking a Roman count as a lover — and sparking an international scandal. With a star-studded cast of characters and sweeping, epic historical events, this is a story of an inspiring trailblazer, a woman who loved big and lived even bigger.

Memory Piece, by Lisa Ko

In the early 1980s, Giselle Chin, Jackie Ong and Ellen Ng are three teenagers drawn together by their shared sense of alienation and desire for something different. “Allied in the weirdest parts of themselves,” they envision each other as artistic collaborators and embark on a future defined by freedom and creativity. By the time they are adults, their dreams are murkier. As a performance artist, Giselle must navigate an elite social world she never conceived of. As a coder thrilled by the internet’s early egalitarian promise, Jackie must contend with its more sinister shift toward monetization and surveillance. And as a community activist, Ellen confronts the increasing gentrification and policing overwhelming her New York City neighborhood. Over time their friendship matures and changes, their definitions of success become complicated, and their sense of what matters evolves. Memory Piece is an innovative and audacious story of three lifelong friends as they strive to build satisfying lives in a world that turns out to be radically different from the one they were promised.

James, by Percival Everett

When the enslaved Jim overhears that he is about to be sold to a man in New Orleans, separated from his wife and daughter forever, he decides to hide on nearby Jackson Island until he can formulate a plan. Meanwhile, Huck Finn has faked his own death to escape his violent father, recently returned to town. As all readers of American literature know, thus begins the dangerous and transcendent journey by raft down the Mississippi River toward the elusive and too-often-unreliable promise of the Free States and beyond. While many narrative set pieces of Adventures of Huckleberry Finn remain in place, Jim’s agency, intelligence and compassion are shown in a radically new light. Brimming with electrifying humor and lacerating observations James is destined to be a cornerstone of 21st century American literature.

Olivetti, by Allie Millington

Being a typewriter is not as easy as it looks. Surrounded by books (notorious attention hogs) and recently replaced by a computer, Olivetti has been forgotten by the Brindle family — the family he’s lived with for years. The Brindles are busy humans, apart from 12-year-old Ernest, who would rather be left alone with his collection of Oxford English Dictionaries. The least they could do was remember Olivetti once in a while, since he remembers every word they’ve typed on him. It’s a thankless job, keeping memories alive. Olivetti gets a rare glimpse of action from Ernest’s mom, Beatrice, only for her to drop him off at Heartland Pawn Shop and leave him helplessly behind. When Olivetti learns Beatrice has mysteriously gone missing afterward, he believes he can help find her. He breaks the only rule of the “typewriterly code” and types back to Ernest, divulging Beatrice’s memories stored inside him. As Olivetti spills out the past, Ernest is forced to face what he and his family have been running from, The Everything That Happened.

 

 

CHILDREN’S BOOKS

Luigi, The Spider Who Wanted to Be a Kitten, by Michelle Knudsen

Oh, Luigi. The temptation of tasty breakfasts and getting tucked into bed have Luigi thinking kittens must live magical lives. So, a kitten he will be! But how long can he keep up this façade, and what might be at stake pretending to be something you’re not? This is a super sweet pet story from the author/illustrator team that created Library Lion. (Ages 3-6.)

Treehouse Town, by Gideon Sterer

Just below the canopy built on sticks and stilts, that’s where you’ll find treehouse town. With sunset lookout towers, nooks for books, and soft willow tree beds, treehouse town has something for everyone. Snuggle up! This sweet story with illustrations that have stories of their own is the perfect read-together. (Ages 3-7.)

Escargot and the Search for Spring, by Dashka Slater

Bonjour! It is the end of winter and time for Escargot to venture back into the world but . . . do his tentacles look a little droopy? His trail not quite so shimmery? Je suis désolé! It’s time to embrace sunshine. And flowers! And bunnies! Follow everyone’s favorite snail and enjoy the delights of spring. (Ages 2-6.)  PS

Compiled by Kimberly Daniels Taws and Angie Tally.

Hometown

Hometown

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Dianne and Sadie

Growing up in the sisterhood

By Bill Fields

I consider myself a “semi-only child” because I came into the world so long after my sisters — 14 1/2 years after Dianne and 12 1/2 after Sadie. They were both off at college before I started first grade.

If what they say about an adult’s first memories is correct — that they usually go back to when someone was 3 or 4 years old — my recollections of Dianne and Sadie date to their teenage days in the early 1960s, about the time we posed in our Sunday finest in the backyard in the accompanying snapshot taken shortly after my fourth birthday. (They look more comfortable in their nice dresses than I do in a bowtie.)

I remember wanting to play — and them not wanting me to in equal measure — with their lipstick and fountain pens, and being intrigued when they utilized the upstairs bathroom sink to change the color of a sweater with Rit dye. There was often music, from their tickling the ivories on the upright piano in our living room to 45s spinning on a record player.

One vivid musical memory makes me think I have some earlier-than-average recall. As much as “Moon River” and “Chances Are” were a soundtrack to those days on East New Jersey Avenue, a silly pop song in my sisters’ record collection stands out in my mind. “Itsy Bitsy Teenie Weenie Yellow Polkadot Bikini,” by Brian Hyland, came out in June of 1960, and I’m convinced its lyrics were among the building blocks of my early vocabulary.

When Dianne and Sadie set out to further their educations at Wake Forest and UNC Greensboro, respectively, I tagged along on rides to and from campus. This proximity gave me a backseat vantage point to our father’s frustration upon taking the wrong exit in Winston-Salem or Greensboro, and fatigue after helping haul his daughters’ stuff to their dorm rooms. Once, our family gave Sadie’s roommate a ride to her hometown of Valdese in the North Carolina foothills. It was about a 100-mile trip but seemed like an exotic journey for a little boy who hadn’t seen much beyond Moore County.

My sisters’ college experiences netted me much more than the Wake and UNCG sweatshirts I got from them for Christmas. If they could go to college, why couldn’t I when the time came? That was a lesson more valuable than anything I was learning at East Southern Pines Elementary. And it didn’t hurt that both were fine students, applying themselves in school. Dianne was high school valedictorian, her name on the wall for years next to a painting of the Blue Knight, which was always a source of family pride as I matriculated through those same halls and classrooms until going to Pinecrest as a sophomore.

My sisters weren’t sportswomen, but I could coerce them into shooting a basket. They tolerated my obsession with miniature golf and joined me for countless games on the carpet, although under oath they would confess to not sharing my sadness when the ball disappeared down the chute on the 18th hole.

The difference in our ages mimicked the gaps between our mother and her two older siblings. Mom always hoped the chronology wouldn’t adversely affect our relationship as we aged, that her children would stay connected as they got older, after she was gone.

Five years after our mother passed away not long before her 96th birthday, we are doing what she hoped. My sisters and I haven’t lived in the same area since they left Southern Pines, but despite the geography we remain in touch. Sometimes we talk on a three-way call, a Jetsonian advance from the days when my sisters were lining up to use the party-line phone to speak to a pal, my little self likely tugging on their hemlines.  PS

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

Golftown Journal

Golftown Journal

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Cool Aids

Teaching the feel of a swing

By Lee Pace

The concept of the golf school was still in its infancy in the early 1980s, though pioneers like Peggy Kirk Bell at Pine Needles Lodge and Golf Club had already been entertaining guests for a quarter of a century for multi-day immersions in golf instruction, competition and fellowship.

The management at Golf Digest magazine believed that golf schools at top-echelon resorts taught by the game’s best instructors would be an excellent way to promote the brand and earn a buck, and so by 1982 the Digest schools visited Pinehurst each spring and fall, bringing instruction luminaries like Jim Flick, Jack Lumpkin, Bob Toski and Gary Wiren to the Sandhills.

Wiren spent time not only on the renowned “Maniac Hill” practice ground at the flagship resort, but he and Peggy Kirk Bell were close friends, and Wiren spoke and taught often down Midland Road at Pine Needles.

Today, one of the foundational training aids in the golf instruction centers at both Pinehurst and Pine Needles (and probably most practice ranges in the Sandhills) is one of Wiren’s inventions. In the early 1980s Wiren played off a favorite drill from three-time British Open champion Henry Cotton in which Cotton had golfers simulate impact by swinging against an old tire — shaft leaning forward, hips clearing and head behind the ball. Wiren thought a softer and safer rendition would be to manufacture a large bag of durable fabric and stuff it with towels.

The bright yellow Impact Bag was introduced in 1982 and became one of the most noted training aids in history. It launched Wiren into a sideline of developing and nurturing the creation of devices to help PGA professionals teach and golfers to learn. Today, at 89 years of age, Wiren and his family operate a business called Golf Around the World, built around an online sales catalog of training devices.

“Telling a golfer is one thing,” says Wiren, who played in the 1994 U.S. Senior Open at Pinehurst wearing knickers and carrying his own bag. “Letting them feel is altogether different.”

Wiren lives in West Palm Beach, Florida, and still makes regular trips each January to the PGA Show in Orlando, where a growing section of the floorspace is dedicated to golfing entrepreneurs who have created better mousetraps to augur a player’s ability to find the proverbial light switch in their golf game.

You might find Jim Hackenburg, who was teaching on Martha’s Vineyard in 2007 when he had the idea of attaching a rubber ball about the size of an orange to a flexible shaft that was designed to help golfers feel the proper motion, sequence and tempo of the swing. Today the Orange Whip is as ubiquitous in golf instruction as the Impact Bag.

Holding court in his booth devoted to his Tour Striker line of training aids is Martin Chuck, an Arizona-based teaching pro. Chuck, frustrated in 2008 by his students’ inability to strike the ball with forward shaft lean, took a 5-iron into his club repair shop and ground off the bottom four grooves of the club, rendering it worthless unless the golfer hit down on the ball sufficiently to force contact in the middle of the clubface — not the bottom edge. Any shot hit on the bottom of the clubface would simply dribble along the ground.

Bernie Fay was a blue collar worker and part-time handyman in Chicago who loved golf and a decade ago conceived a 42-inch polymer shaft with an attached elbow cuff that promotes a wider turn and keeping the left arm straight. He put his life savings into what he calls the “Most Important Stretch In Golf,” or MISIG, for a business name.

“I think that golfers know something that other people do not,” Fay says. “They have something in them that others might not: the light of hope. They have figured out spiritual art. Something beautiful. It’s pure, and I am awestruck when I think about it. The light of hope is always on them.”

This year one of the more novel introductions to the eternal hope for a better golf game is Mike Dickson, a Maryland-based instructor who has created and manufactured a line of devices under the LagMaster banner. Like Wiren, Chuck and many others before him, Dickson was confounded over 17 years teaching at Congressional Country Club in Washington with the average golfer’s tendency to “cast” the club, releasing it well before impact.

But instead of solving the problem at the bottom of the move, Dickson’s LagMaster addresses the issue at the top of the backswing and the early part of the downswing. The device is placed on the grip of the club, and with a properly executed backswing, one end of it touches the right shoulder at the top of the backswing (for a right-handed golfer). The feel Dickson is teaching is to keep the end of the device touching the shoulder into the downswing until the left arm is parallel to the ground. To do that, the golfer has to retain the 90-degree angle of the club and the left arm.

Presto: No cast, and an eventual compression of the ball at impact.

Dickson looks around him at the Orange County Convention Center in January 2024 and takes in all the inventions.

“The whole goal of any training aid in this building is to give somebody a sensation, a feeling without me having to describe it or put my hands on your body,” he says. “If you feel it, you’re going to own it.”

Dickson is a proponent of Homer Kelley’s The Golfing Machine, one of the key elements being the action of the right shoulder. Kelley teaches that the right shoulder swings down “on plane,” along the same line as the club shaft and staying “back and down” until after the hit. Tom Watson credits that move with helping him during his late-career success on the PGA Champions Tour.

“That’s what I am trying to accomplish with the LagMaster,” Dickson says. “You have to turn the right shoulder under to maintain the angle. If I can give you a good grip and sequence you the right way, all this other mess goes away. It’s been fun to watch it evolve.

“A guy ordered the device and wrote back immediately. He said, ‘Mike, after the first three swings, I couldn’t believe how different it felt.’ I see that every day.”

Dickson left Congressional in 2021 to start his own golf academy at Little Bennett Golf Course in Clarksburg, Maryland. He teaches there and runs his LagMaster as a side hustle that, he says, “looks like it’s going to be bigger.”

Indeed, the water is warm in the training aids ocean.  PS

Lee Pace has written about golf in Pinehurst and the Sandhills for more than three decades. Write him at leepace7@gmail.com and follow him @LeePaceTweet.