Here Today, Gone Tomato

Nothing says Southern cooking more than a plate of fried green tomatoes

By Jane Lear

The tomato is a tropical berry — it originated in South America — and so it requires plenty of long, hot sunny days to reach its best: the deep, rich-tasting, almost meaty sweetness many of us live for each summer. When September rolls around, though, it’s a different story. It’s not that I’ve gotten bored with all that lush ripeness, but I develop a very definite craving for fried green tomatoes.

If you grow your own backyard beefsteaks, unripe tomatoes are available pretty much all summer long, but this is the time of year they start getting really good. In the early autumn, the days are undeniably getting shorter, and thus there are fewer hours of sun. That and cooler temperatures result in green tomatoes with a greater ratio of acid to sugars.

And my cast-iron skillet, which tends to live on top of the stove anyway, gets a workout. Fried green tomatoes, after all, are terrific any time of day. In the morning, they are wonderful sprinkled with a little brown sugar while still hot in the skillet, right before you gently lift them onto warmed breakfast plates. If you’re a brunch person, serve them that way, and you’ll bring down the house. At lunchtime, embellishing BLTs with fried green tomatoes may seem like a time-consuming complication, but those sandwiches will be transcendent, and you and yours are worth it.

When it comes to the evening meal, fried green tomatoes are typically considered a side dish, and there is nothing wrong with that. But in my experience, they always steal the show, so I tend to build supper around them. I rely on leftover cold roasted chicken or ham to fill in the cracks, for instance. Or I make them the center of a vegetable-based supper in which no one will miss the meat. They play well with corn on the cob or succotash, snap beans or butter beans, ratatouille, grilled zucchini and summer squash with pesto, or grits, rice, or potatoes. Pickled black-eyed peas (aka Texas caviar) are nice in the mix, as are sliced ripe red tomatoes, which, when served alongside crunchy golden fried green tomatoes, add a great contrast in texture and flavor.

If you are fortunate enough to have a jar of watermelon rind pickles in the pantry, my Aunt Roxy would suggest that you hop up and get it. I ate many a meal in her cottage on Harbor Island, and early on I learned watermelon and tomatoes have a curious yet genuine affinity for one another. I imagine Aunt Roxy would greet today’s popular fresh tomato and watermelon salads with a satisfied nod of recognition.

We always had a difference of opinion, however, over cream gravy, a popular accompaniment for fried green tomatoes. It’s not that I am morally opposed to lily gilding, but I have never seen the point in putting something wet on something you have worked to make crisp and golden. A butter sauce on pan-fried soft-shelled crabs, chili or melted cheese on french fries, a big scoop of vanilla on a flaky double-crusted fruit pie: I don’t care what it is, the result is soggy food, and I don’t like it.

When it comes to the actual coating for fried green tomatoes, the most traditional choice is dried bread crumbs. I sometimes use the crisp, flaky Japanese bread crumbs called panko, but like Fannie Flagg, I am happiest with cornmeal. It can be white or yellow, fine-ground or coarse. It doesn’t matter as long as it is sweet-smelling — a sign of freshness. And if you happen to have some okra handy, you may as well fry that up at the same time. Trim the pods, cut them into bite-size nuggets, and coat them like the tomato slices. Although rule one when frying anything is not to crowd the pan (otherwise, the food will steam, not fry), there is always room to work a few pieces of okra into each batch of tomatoes. And whoever you are feeding will think you hung the moon and stars.

Fried Green Tomatoes  (Serves 4)

When cutting tomatoes for frying, aim for slices between 1/4 and 1/2 inch thick. If too thin, you won’t get the custardy interior you want. And if the slices are too thick, then the coating will burn before the interior is softened.

About 1 cup of cornmeal

Coarse salt and freshly ground pepper

1 large egg, lightly beaten with a fork

4 extremely firm (but not rock-hard) large green tomatoes

Vegetable oil or bacon drippings (you can also use a combination of the two)

Preheat the oven to low. Season the cornmeal with salt and pepper and spread in a shallow bowl. Have ready the beaten egg in another shallow bowl. Cut the tomatoes into 1/2-inch slices (see above note).

Pour enough oil or drippings into a large heavy skillet to measure about 1/8 inch and heat over moderate heat until shimmering. Meanwhile, working in batches, dip one tomato slice at a time into the egg, turning to coat, then dredge it well in the cornmeal. As you coat each slice, put it on a sheet of waxed paper and let it rest for a minute or two. (This is something I remember watching Aunt Roxy do. It must give the cornmeal a chance to absorb some moisture and decide to adhere.) By the time you coat enough slices to fit in the skillet, the fat in the pan should be good and hot.

Carefully, so as not to dislodge the coating, slip a batch of tomato slices into the hot fat (do not crowd pan) and fry, turning as necessary, until golden on both sides. Drain the slices on paper towels and transfer them to a baking sheet; tuck them in the oven to stay warm and crisp.

Coat and fry the remaining tomato slices in batches, wiping out the skillet with a paper towel and adding more oil or drippings as needed. Be patient and give the fat time to heat up in between batches. You may find yourself eating the first slice or two while alone in the kitchen, but be sweet and share the rest.  PS

Jane Lear was the senior articles editor at Gourmet and features director at Martha Stewart Living.

September Books

FICTION

Waiting for Eden, by Elliot Ackerman 

A mortally wounded Marine, Eden, has been in a burn unit for three years. His wife never leaves his side. Believing that he is close to death, she agrees to allow the hospital to ease his way out of this world. But they realize the clacking of his teeth is a code and he’s trying to communicate. Although he is ready to end his life, they decide not to help him on that route in this moving tale of love, loss, loyalty and betrayal.

Transcription, by Kate Atkinson 

In 1940, 18-year-old Juliet Armstrong is reluctantly recruited into the world of espionage. Sent to an obscure department of MI5 and tasked with monitoring the comings and goings of British fascist sympathizers, she discovers the work to be both tedious and terrifying. After the war ends, she presumes the events of those years have been relegated to the past forever. Ten years later, after becoming a radio producer at the BBC, Juliet is unexpectedly confronted by figures from her past. A different war is being fought now, on a different battleground, and she finds herself once more under threat.

The Labyrinth of the Spirits, by Carlos Ruiz Zafon

The internationally acclaimed New York Times best-selling author returns to the magnificent universe he constructed in his novels The Shadow of the Wind, The Angel’s Game and The Prisoner of Heaven in this riveting series finale — a heart-pounding tale of suspense that introduces a sexy, seductive new heroine whose investigation shines a light on the dark history of Franco’s Spain.

The Collector’s Apprentice, by B.A. Shapiro

It’s the summer of 1922, and 19-year-old Paulien Mertens finds herself in Paris — broke, disowned, and completely alone. Everyone in Belgium, including her own family, believes she stole millions in a sophisticated con game perpetrated by her then-fiancé, George Everard. She creates a new identity and is hired by the eccentric and wealthy American art collector Edwin Bradley. She soon finds herself caught up in the Parisian world of post-Impressionists and expatriates as she travels between Paris and Philadelphia — where Bradley is building an art museum — and things get complicated as she tries to clear her name.

NONFICTION

Heartland: A Memoir of Working Hard and Being Broke in the Richest Country on Earth, by Sarah Smarsh

The anthem of a Midwestern childhood rises from the pages of this poetic, truth-telling memoir. Set in Kansas in the 1980s, Smarsh unapologetically tells the history of several generations of her family rife with physical abuse, substance abuse, poverty and nomadic upheaval. The product of an emotionally unattached mother, she shares the story of her childhood with her imagined, never-to-be-conceived daughter, August. Her people were hardworking and hard-partying, and would give the shirts off their backs to anyone in need, while never quite getting ahead themselves. This is an important sociological examination of the isolation and distrust in a class of people as overlooked and misunderstood as the “flyover” states of our nation’s heartland.

Small Fry, by Lisa Brennan-Jobs 

The fact that Brennan-Jobs’ father is Steve Jobs is part of the story, but it’s not the whole story in this well-written and engaging memoir. Transporting us to her childhood in California with detached perspective, she writes about a man who is fully himself, flaws and all, with the love, compassion and unapologetic care that a daughter can share.

Whiskey in a Teacup, by Reese Witherspoon 

A lifestyle book with recipes and menus for entertaining and celebrating holidays, and ideas for making special occasions truly special, Whiskey in a Teacup is also full of personal essays about Witherspoon’s childhood memories; why she idolizes Dolly Parton; the importance of female friendships; her love of literature; portraits of family members; and her secret recipe for hot-rollering your hair. Peppered throughout with fun sidebars (“Let’s Talk about the Steel Magnolias Beauty Parlor Scene”; “How to Catch a Frog with Your Bare Hands”), the book’s voice is all Reese — chatty, funny, down-to-earth, open and enthusiastic.

In Pieces, by Sally Field

With the humility and authenticity her fans have come to expect and the pitch-perfect prose of a natural-born writer, Field brings readers behind-the-scenes for the highs and lows of her star-studded early career in Hollywood and deep into the truth of her lifelong relationships — including her complicated love for her mother. Powerful and unforgettable, In Pieces is an inspiring and important account of life as a woman in the second half of the 20th century.

How Do We Look: The Body, the Divine and the Question of Civilization, by Mary Beard

Conceived as a gorgeously illustrated accompaniment to the Civilizations shows How Do We Look and The Eye of Faith on PBS, renowned classicist Mary Beard has created this elegant volume on how we have looked at art. Focusing in Part I on the Olmec heads of early Mesoamerica, the colossal statues of the pharaoh Amenhotep III, and the nudes of classical Greece, Beard explores the power, hierarchy, and gender politics of art in the ancient world, explaining how it came to define the so-called civilized world. In Part II, she chronicles some of the most breathtaking religious imagery ever made — whether at Angkor Wat, Ravenna, Venice, or in the art of Jewish and Islamic calligraphers — to show how all religions, ancient and modern, have faced irreconcilable problems in trying to picture the divine. With this classic volume, Beard redefines the Western and male-centric legacies of Ernst Gombrich and Kenneth Clark.

CHILDREN’S BOOKS

The Truth About My Unbelievable School, by Davide Cali and Benjamin Chaud

Ho, hum. Every school has art, PE, science and a giant jellyfish for a class pet. Oh, wait, maybe not that pet thing. And maybe not an Olympic champion for a PE teacher. And possibly not a Ferris wheel or a principal’s office that . . . well, lets not talk about the principal’s office. Let’s just say that this school is unbelievable, and in a world of “school can be scary” back-to-school books, this book is, well, unbelievable, too. (Ages 4-6.)

Interrupting Chicken and the Elephant of Surprise, by David Ezra Stein

Every great story has an elephant, um, element of surprise, and Little Red from the Caldecott Honor-winning Interrupting Chicken is back with a big surprise of her own. A very “pun-ny” read-aloud just perfect for story time, Interrupting Chicken and the Elephant of Surprise is a ton of fun. (Ages 4-6.)

Running on the Roof of the World, by Jess Butterworth

Tash and her best friend, Sam, live in Tibet where, as practicing Buddhists under the strong arm of the occupying Chinese soldiers, they must never utter two words: Dalai Lama. So, when Tash’s parents are arrested following a local uprising, Tash and Sam, along with Eve and Bones — two absolutely wonderful borrowed yaks — make their way across the treacherous mountains to carry an urgent message that could just save everything and everyone they hold dear. Running on the Roof of the World is a fast-paced adventure that will leave curious young readers on the edge of their seat. (Ages 10-14.)

I Am Still Alive, by Kate Alice Marshall

Tense and brilliantly written, I Am Still Alive grabs you on the first page and doesn’t let go. After the death of her reclusive father, Jess and Bo, a half-wild almost bear-sized dog, scavenge for sustenance in the wilds of Canada. A great choice for a long, rainy day or, better yet, a snowed-in blackout blizzard night, I Am Still Alive is a must read for anyone who loves to see just what people are made of when pushed to the brink of existence. (Ages 14 and up.)  PS

Compiled by Kimberly Daniels Taws and Angie Tally

Book Tour Blues

At Bespoke Coffee and Dry Goods

By Wiley Cash

Photographs By Mallory Cash

Bespoke Coffee and Dry Goods at the corner of Princess and 2nd streets in downtown Wilmington seemed like a good place to meet my friends and fellow writers Jason Mott and Taylor Brown for several reasons. First, the place is absolutely gorgeous. Huge windows pour light into a high-ceilinged space that is grounded by checkered tile, hardwood floors and countless succulent plants that lend soft pops of natural color to the industrial furnishings. Second, Bespoke’s coffee is just as outstanding as the curated list of local beers they have on tap. Finally, I knew Taylor would already be there, just as he is every afternoon.

I find Taylor at his spot near the register, sitting at the window that looks out on 2nd. When I say “his spot” I really mean it; a small gold plaque on the counter reads This space is reserved for Taylor “The Bodyguard” Brown.

“I spend hours writing here every afternoon,” he says when I ask him to tell me the story of the plaque. “When they first opened, I would stay until closing at 7:00 p.m., and then I would walk out with the staff.” He smiles, looks down at his open laptop where it sits just below the plaque. “They started calling me the bodyguard.”

I have known Taylor since an advanced reader’s copy of his debut novel, Fallen Land, found its way to me in the months leading up to its publication. The novel, which was released in 2016, was a huge success, and it was followed by the novels The River of Kings in 2017 and Gods of Howl Mountain in 2018. He has just recently returned from a long book tour that had him crisscrossing the country.

“How are you feeling after all that travel?” I ask.

“It gave me mono,” he says.

I laugh.

“No, seriously,” he says. “I went to the doctor last week.”

Jason walks in the door while we are talking. Like Taylor, he has just arrived home from a long book tour himself. We all shake hands, and Jason asks how we are doing.

“Book tour gave Taylor mono,” I say.

“I almost died on book tour, too,” Jason says.

I gesture toward the bar.

“Let’s get some drinks.”

We get our drinks — iced coffee for Taylor, water for Jason, and an IPA from Wilmington Brewing Company for me — and grab a table just inside the front door.

I have known Jason since my parents introduced me to him in 2013, when his first novel, The Returned, was released. The book was optioned and produced as a television show for ABC before it was even published, and my mom watched it and loved it, and then she and my dad went to one of Jason’s book signings. She fell for him because of his books, and my dad fell for him because of his cars. To say that Jason Mott is a car enthusiast is an understatement. He buys them, repairs them, modifies them, and races them. My dad had spent much of his young life doing the same. Finally, a writer both my mother and father could support.

Jason’s second novel, The Wonder of All Things, was released in 2014, and his novel The Crossing was released this spring. I ask him to expound upon his near-death experience on book tour.

“Hospitality driver,” he says. “He almost mowed down someone crossing the street in Seattle. He slammed on the brakes, and I thought I was going through the windshield. He told me he hadn’t seen the guy because he’d been about to pass out.”

“What did you do?” Taylor asks.

“Well, I was starving, and I figured if he was about to pass out, then he might need food. We stopped at Burger King and ate dinner before heading to the bookstore.”

“The glamour of book tour,” I say.

Our conversation quickly turns to surprising, horrifying and hilarious things that can happen when you are on book tour alone, staying in bad hotels, catching red-eye flights, and always feeling like you are supposed to be somewhere else.

“I’m actually working on a novel right now about a writer who goes on a book tour where insane things happen,” Jason says. “I wrote it as a screenplay, and the folks out in Hollywood said it may get more interest if it’s a book first.”

“I’ll read it,” I said.

“I’ll read it and blurb it,” Taylor said.

We tell more stories, finish our drinks, and then stand to leave. As someone who drives a toy-littered Subaru Outback with two car seats in the back, I watch Jason leave and try to imagine what kind of car he will be climbing into. Taylor heads back to his seat where his laptop still rests below his plaque.

“How late will you stay?” I ask.

“They close at 6:00 p.m. now,” Taylor says. “They felt bad for running me out of here an hour early, so they gave me a key to lock up.”

“Are you serious?” I ask.

He smiles and holds up a brass key on his key ring.

I say good-bye and step out into the heat. As I settle into my car and turn on the A/C, I imagine Taylor a few hours from now, closing down his laptop, turning off the lights at Bespoke Coffee and Dry Goods and locking the door behind him, glad to be home.  PS

Wiley Cash lives in Wilmington with his wife and their two daughters. His latest novel, The Last Ballad, is available wherever books are sold.

Soul Soothing

A place and a person to remember

By Tom Bryant

You are not dead until there
isn’t a crumb of memory left
anywhere in the world.

— John D. MacDonald,
The Empty Copper Sea

There is a place hanging on a mountainside right off the Blue Ridge Parkway where a person can rest his soul. The place is known as the Sourwood Inn. It’s a lot more than the common definition of a bed and breakfast. There are 12 bedrooms situated in a classic mountain lodge, overlooking a beautiful, almost mystic valley. The lovely inn was built for rest, relaxation and, as I mentioned, restoring the soul.

It had been a sad, gray, melancholy time. A good friend had suddenly keeled over and was gone before the EMS could arrive. A cousin I hadn’t seen in years passed away with heart trouble. And my mother, 99 years old and still with the grace and fortitude of a Southern lady, passed away quietly after a small stay in the hospital and an even shorter visit to hospice. It was as if she didn’t want to inconvenience the family with a long, drawn out, sad time of dying. She was that kind of lady, always thinking of others.

My sister’s call about Mom came late one evening. It had been a typical Sandhills summer day, hot with a high humidity that sent folks searching for air-conditioning. I had waited until late in the afternoon to beat the heat and do some much needed yard work. With that finished, I sat back in the sunroom enjoying a cold beer. My cellphone was still in my pocket, and I answered its persistent, buzzing ring.

“Tommy.”

“Hey, Bonnie, how’re things on the farm?” My sister had been Mother’s caregiver, and they lived in the old plantation house that was built in 1830.

“Not good. Mom’s in the hospital. She fell this morning and is not doing well. I’m on my way back over there to talk to the doctor now.”

“OK. Linda and I will come on down as soon as I clean up a little.”

“No, don’t come now. Wait until I find out from the doc what’s going on. This could be it, Tommy. Mama looks terrible.”

After a short stay in the hospital, Mom was moved to hospice. It was exactly as we feared. She was ready, after all her years, to give up the fight.

Linda and I made it to the hospice building a little after 11 the next morning and entered the room to see Mom.

“Hey, Mom, it’s Tommy. I love you.” Mother was past communicating with anyone. She was in the bed, eyes closed, breathing hard. I couldn’t take it and went back out in the hall.

In just a few minutes, Harriet, my cousin, an excellent nurse who had been observing the efforts of the hospice nurses, came out behind me and said, “Tommy, your mother is gone.”

My other sister, Billie, standing next to me, said, “It’s as if she was waiting for you.”

The rest of the week was a blur. Folks from the old Mizpah Church did a wonderful job with Mom’s funeral. The pastor, an easy-going, caring young man, presented the service just as Mom had wanted, and members of the church put together an afternoon meal for the family.

Mother was laid to rest beside my dad, who died almost 50 years ago. They were finally reunited.

On the drive home, Tom, our son, was dozing in the passenger’s seat, and Linda was in the back seat.

“It was great for Art, Bryan and Sandy and Bob to drive all that way,” she said. Bob and Sandy live nearby in Southern Pines, and we don’t see them often enough. Art lives in Albemarle and is part of our duck-hunting crew; and Bryan, another hunting buddy, drove down from Burlington.

“Yep, remember what Mom always said, good friends are gold.” I was quiet as we motored toward home, thinking about her and all her wise sayings and how she would be missed.

“Babe,” I said. “We really need to get away for a while. What if we go up to the mountains and stay at the Sourwood for a few days? We could kick back, read and maybe ride into Asheville for a bit.”

“That’s a wonderful idea. I’ll call them right now and see if they have a room available.”

We were in luck. Susan, the young lady who runs the inn, said that our favorite room was available and we were welcome. The room that we have stayed in several times is located on the second floor and has screened French doors leading to a small balcony overlooking the valley and mountain ridges beyond.

After a four-hour ride out of the sweltering heat of the Piedmont, we breathed a sigh of relief when we finally saw the mountain ranges to the west. We reached the Parkway; then it was just a short distance to Elk Mountain Road and the little one-lane, firebreak-wide driveway to the inn.

After we had unloaded and settled in our room, Linda went down to the great room and brought back homemade cookies and lemonade. I, on the other hand, decided to kick back on the balcony with three fingers of good Scotch I had been saving for a special occasion. The sun was beginning to set and a smoky gray mist was rising out of the valley.

Linda had put together a little picnic supper knowing that the inn would not be serving dinner that Wednesday evening, and we didn’t want to ride into Asheville after our five-hour trek across the state. We ate out on the balcony and watched as the sun set behind the inn and darkness crept over the valley. Linda went inside to read, and I watched the shadows and listened as nocturnal wildlife started calling and moving about the woods. After a while I went in, picked up the book I was reading and got ready for bed. I left the doors to the outside open, only latching the screens.

In the middle of the night, I was suddenly awakened. It was as if something or some noise had jolted me from my deep sleep. Groggily, I sat on the side of the bed, trying not to wake Linda, and heard the culprits that had roused me from my slumber. It was a pair of barred owls. They were evidently having a dispute over territorial rights and were arguing like a couple of Southern lawyers. I eased out to the balcony to listen.

The dark sky, full of stars, looked as if it had been sprinkled with diamonds, and the Milky Way seemed to be hovering right over the inn. I watched and listened as the owls moved down the ridge toward the valley, and I thought about Mother and a conversation we had before she became so conflicted with dementia.

“Tommy, don’t you be so upset when I leave this Earth. I’ve had a good life and I’m ready.”

“Mom, you’re going to be here for a lot more years,” I replied.

“No, son, I’m not. And listen to me. My death is not going to be an ending. It’s a new beginning. Think of it as if I’m just heading out on a big adventure and will see you again some day. I won’t see you anytime soon, though, because you have a lot of living yet to do in this world.”

I listened as the sounds of the owls faintly drifted up from the valley, and then they were silent. A meteor streaked across the northern sky. I stood and stretched so hard I could hear my tendons creak. It was as if a heavy weight fell from my shoulders, and I silently went back into the room and to bed.

I dreamed about meteors and stars and Mother.  PS

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

The Back Deck

Where there’s enough for everyone

By Renee Phile

The green, grassy yard is a triangular shape, lots of plants: basil, rosemary, pansies, and other flowers that look cool, but I don’t know their names. Bird feeders — the whimsical ones — are scattered in the yard. The hoi polloi squirrels eat peanuts from kitchen pans on picnic tables. The birds chirp, the highway beside the house roars softly, the wind tingles against my skin. It’s a cool September morning in Nags Head, and I can smell the ocean. My best friend’s grandma reminds me of my own. Delicate but not breakable. I’m sitting right beside her on the back deck. Just the two of us. I hear a buzz. A bee. Then a hummingbird. I see trees full of birds I can’t identify any more than I know the flowers. I hear a car honk. A door shut. She is reading her devotional book, The Upper Room, and I remember my Gram reading the same book. She reads her Bible at the same time, the books balanced in her lap. Flips pages in her Bible. Points her finger along the page like a palm reader tracing the heart line. Reads. Flips more pages. Reads. Rubs her worn, delicate hands together. Flips more pages. Reads. Rubs her wrist. Peers down at a verse. Reads it to herself. The words almost loud enough for someone to hear. Sips her coffee. I sip my own and continue to write in a notebook. A blue jay hops close to me. She looks up. Throws it a peanut. “Uh, oh,” she says as another one swoops down, snatches it, and flies into a tree. She throws a second peanut for the first blue jay, the one that got pushed to the back of the line, but the one in the tree flies down again, and there is a little scuffle. Bird stuff. “There’s enough for everyone!” she laughs. I laugh too.  “This house was built in 1990, and we bought it in 1998,” she explains. I nod. “We have been here ever since.” I nod. She tells me about the house. Two stories. She tells me about her children. Two live close by, they can smell the ocean. One lives on the other side of the world.  She tells me about her husband, who passed away this year. He was a wonderful man. She lays her hand flat on the page of the book. There are doves on the roof of the house, looking like a conference is taking place. Bird stuff. I wonder what they are talking about up there. “The blackbirds eat up everything!” she says as she throws a peanut to a squirrel. It hops up to the deck and devours the nut. She reads, and I write. I breathe in the ocean air. I never want to lose this. Instead I will store it away and come back to it whenever I need it. The blue jay swoops down again, greedy.  PS

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

Gifts from the Sea

Add a powerhouse of nutrients

By Karen Frye

Walking along the shoreline in the northernmost part of Maine and into Canada at low tide, you will find beautiful sea vegetables on the rocks. Edible seaweed grows in an area of the ocean’s edge called the intertidal zone, a fertile area where the land’s organic mineral matter meets the ocean’s mix of water and sunlight.

Originating in Japan, the macrobiotic diet promotes the use of sea vegetables for improving health and includes them in many recipes. The Vikings carried dried seaweed on their voyages for sustenance.  Early New England whalers chewed on seaweed for its high vitamin C content to keep scurvy away. The Japanese incorporated sea vegetables in their diet regularly and used them in shrines and ceremonies.

Adding edible seaweed to your food will bathe your cells with a powerhouse of nutrients. Seaweed pioneer Evelyn McConnaughey has collected references from around the world of seaweed being used in the treatment of goiter and other thyroid problems, kidney ailments, ulcers, obesity, high cholesterol, hardening of the arteries and hypoglycemia. Traditional Oriental medicine has always promoted the use of seaweed to lower the risk of heart disease. High in potassium and low in sodium, it reduces the risk of high blood pressure and stroke.

Some of the sea vegetables found easily are:

— Alaria: perfect in soups, loaded with calcium and vitamin A.

— Arame: mild flavor, soak for a few minutes and add to salads or stir-frys.

— Dulse: a reddish-purple seaweed that can be enjoyed as a snack out of the bag, or added to sandwiches, salads and soups.

— Kelp: the all purpose sea veggie, it comes in shakers to sprinkle over food (an alternative to salt); exceptionally high in all minerals, especially calcium, potassium and magnesium.

— Kombu: usually found in strips, you can tenderize (by soaking in water for a few minutes) before use; excellent to add to soups, stocks and beans; very high in iodine.

— Wakame: a very mild taste, cooks quickly; traditionally used for miso soup. 

— Nori: if you’ve eaten sushi, you’ve eaten nori; it has a mild, nutty taste, use it for wraps, or crumble it over foods; the highest protein content of the sea veggies with significant amounts of the B vitamins.

Here is an easy soup recipe that is delicious and can get you on your way to making sea vegetables a part of your life.

Basic Miso Soup

6 cups water or vegetable stock

1 medium carrot, sliced diagonally

1 3-inch piece of wakame or kombu

2 scallions, thinly sliced diagonally

3-4 tablespoons miso paste (found in the refrigerated section)

Bring water or stock to a simmer, add carrots and cook until tender.  Soak the seaweed in cold water while carrots cook, then drain.  When carrots are tender, add the seaweed to the stock and simmer for a minute. Add the scallions and simmer for another minute. Remove from the heat.  Dissolve miso in some of the broth and return to pot.  Allow to steep briefly before serving. You can remove the seaweed because all the nutrients are now in the soup. You can add other vegetables like celery, onion and ginger. Sprinkle with fresh chopped parsley before serving.

Many health care professionals promote following a plant-based diet.  Don’t hesitate to include the sea vegetables as well. You’ll be glad you did.  PS

Karen Frye is the owner and founder of Nature’s Own and teaches yoga at the Bikram Yoga Studio.

Home, Revisited

The place where old voices linger

By Deborah Salomon

Thomas Wolfe was wrong. You can go home again, virtually, at least. Beware: The journey may be enlightening or sad, affirming or bittersweet.

I have lived under 12 roofs — apartments, duplexes, condos, houses — in 80 years. Each represented a life sequence although, at the time, you only think about the stairs, stoves and bathtubs. Google makes homecoming easier because should the property be for sale, chances are the real estate agent will post a slide show.

I discovered this 10 years ago, after moving back to Asheville, where I lived as a teen in a house my parents occupied almost 40 years. The first buyer renovated and flipped it after my mother moved to a senior residence. It was for sale again. After poring over the photos I asked the agent for a walk-through, which I anticipated, naively, would be like a mother-child reunion.

This house in a very ordinary neighborhood was constructed entirely of stone in 1947 by a builder, for his own family. Poor guy knew more about materials than layout. A hopeless kitchen, tiny dining room, oversize living room, two main-floor bedrooms, two more upstairs plus two vaguely art deco black-and-white tiled bathrooms. The house was empty, with gleaming original hardwood throughout and ridiculously ornate crown moldings added later. Wall colors — bright and hard, unlike the soft green and rose of the ’50s — smacked of too much makeup on an aging beauty. I cringed seeing the mantel painted, ugh, black. Without drapes the huge picture window was a gaping wound in the living room wall.

Once inside the heavy front door, voices long ago absorbed by the walls came seeping out: my mother’s voice, complaining about the cramped kitchen, now gleaming stainless, more like a hospital OR than a place to simmer beef stew. Gone was the wall separating it from the tiny dining room. I heard my father insisting that because the house was made of stone we didn’t need window air conditioners. He deemed “cross ventilation” sufficient.  So we suffered.

The basement became his castle, housing a workshop where he made and fixed everything. I had forgotten the tiny, windowless basement bathroom, my introduction to segregation. The African-American man who did “heavy cleaning” for my mother insisted on using that bathroom to change from the clothes he wore to work at the V.A. hospital. Leroy ate his sandwich in the basement, too, although we invited him to eat with us. I always took him a cold Coke, in a bottle.

The massive oak which dominated the backyard — gone, replaced by a fire pit and meditation garden, whatever that is. The flagstone patio added under the critical eye of my grandfather, a retired brick mason, had been roofed over — now “an Italianate veranda.”  I could almost hear Granddaddy shuffling along the back hall, where the carpet runners (with a hideous “carved” pattern) had been removed, lest he trip and fall.

At the top of the stairs was a sewing closet. My mother rarely fired up the Singer but my father, in search of a project, had built slanted shelves fitted with little spindles, to hold thread spools. How was the Realtor to know?  “Custom carpentry,” she called them.

The upstairs was mine (an only child’s perk) until I left for university. Then it became an apartment with kitchen, sitting room, bath and bedroom but no separate entrance. That lasted one tenant, a cranky old lady who was either too hot or too cold. I peeked into the storage room under the eaves which had a window facing the street — and shuddered. My mother insisted I go on a blind date with the son of a college classmate. From that window I watched him get out of the car and approach the front door. In an absolute panic, I ran downstairs, told my mother no way, dashed into the bathroom and locked the door.

Now, for the last time, I looked through the window and laughed, a laugh that echoed through empty rooms painted garish colors.

A lot transpired in that house. My grandfather died in the back bedroom. I graduated from high school, college and married from there. I brought my three wiggly kids who made a terrible mess. When my daughter was at Duke she sometimes appeared for the weekend, unannounced, with her big dog and a boyfriend. I watched the furniture and household goods carried away at the tag sale — all except my father’s tools, which I gave to Leroy, who had admired them for 30 years of basement lunch breaks.

Why pretend? Angst outweighed nostalgia as I walked through the empty, pristine rooms. Mine was not a storybook youth. But it was my youth. Beginning in 1953, this youth played out in my father’s pride, something the sixth son of a desperately poor immigrant family never dreamed of owning — a solid, attractive, comfortable home.  And now, except for the spool spindles and a few glass doorknobs, that house had been washed clean of his presence.

I found an apartment and two more houses online but have no desire to follow up. Because, I learned, only the house remains, not the home.

So maybe Thomas Wolfe was right, after all.  PS

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

PinePitch

63rd Annual Robbins Farmers Day

Begun in 1955 when Curtis Hussey and his cousins obtained permission to have a parade through downtown Robbins, Farmers Day festivities begin on Thursday, Aug. 2, at 6 p.m. with the 5K Run/Walk and gospel music on the depot stage. Friday from 6 to 11 p.m., dance to Bluegrass by the Hill Family of Sanford and William Willard’s Country Storm Band. On Saturday, from 9 a.m. to 11:30 p.m., enjoy carnival rides, entertainment, demonstrations and — of course— the Farmers Day Parade. The horses and wagons arrive at 11 a.m., competing for trophies in 21 categories, including best buggy, horse, mule team and donkey. Bring your lawn chairs, but please no golf carts or ATVs — they’re not allowed inside the barricades. For more information, call (910) 295-7808 or visit robbinsfarmersday.com.

Step Back in Time

You can still see the bullet holes in Colonel Philip Alston’s House in the Horseshoe, where his revolutionary band of citizen soldiers fought the Loyalists in 1781. See a re-enactment of this Revolutionary War battle at 2 p.m. on Saturday or Sunday, Aug. 4 or 5, at the 237th anniversary of the Battle at the House in the Horseshoe. From 9:30 a.m. to 5 p.m., you can tour the 18th century plantation house and view militia encampments and a blacksmith shop. Watch demonstrations featuring musket/artillery firings, colonial brewing, gardening and spinning/weaving. Admission is free, but parking is $5. Food trucks will be on-site. The House is located at 288 Alston House Road, Sanford. For more information, call (910) 947-2051 or visit www.nchistoricsites.org/horsesho/.

Seagrove Potters and Sweet Tea

Spend a lazy day in Seagrove on Saturday, Aug. 11, enjoying two of the area’s finest traditions: iced tea and pottery. Local potters will be offering iced teas and homemade treats for you to sample as you browse through their shops on this gallery crawl. Participating potters include Blue Hen Pottery, Dean & Martin Pottery, Eck McCanless Pottery, From the Ground Up, Thomas Pottery and Red Hare Pottery. Their featured wares for this special event will be pitchers and tumblers. Shops are located along N.C. 705 (the Pottery Highway) and will be open from 10 a.m. to 5 p.m. Pick up a pottery map at your first stop. For more information, call (336) 879-4145 or visit www.teawithseagrovepotters.webstarts.com.

Fine Arts Festival

The 38th Annual Fine Arts Festival will open on Friday, Aug. 3, at the Campbell House Galleries. The FAF, started by the Arts Council of Moore County in 1980 to showcase local artists, now features artwork from all over the country. The opening reception, from 6 to 8 p.m. on Friday, offers the opportunity to view the artwork, meet the artists and friends, and enjoy wine and light hors d’oeuvres. Prizes and ribbons will be awarded in painting, drawing or pastel, photography, mixed media, pottery and sculpture. The artwork will be for sale and on display at the gallery through Aug. 30. The Campbell House is located at 482 E. Connecticut Ave. in Southern Pines. For more information, call (910) 692-2787 or go to mooreart.org.

Musicians Jam Session/Song Circle

All members of the public are invited to bring their instruments and join other musicians for an informal evening of music and song — or just come to enjoy the company and surroundings. Please bring your own beverage. This free event will be held Tuesday, Aug. 28, from 7 to 9 p.m. in the Great Room at the Weymouth Center for the Arts & Humanities, 555 E. Connecticut Ave. in Southern Pines. This event is held throughout the year on the last Tuesday of each month. For more information, call (910) 692-6261 or www.weymouthcenter.org.

Bocce in the Backyard

The 11th annual Sandhills Children’s Center Backyard Bocce Bash takes place on Saturday, Aug. 18, and you are invited to join the tailgate party and play a little bocce for a good cause. This private, nonprofit organization provides much-needed day programs for children with and without special developmental needs. Register your team of four players for $100 (basic) to $350 (VIP). All proceeds benefit the children. VIP teams get a courtside tent to decorate — and a prize is awarded to the best decorated tent. Registration starts at 8:30 a.m. at the National Athletic Village, 201 Air Tool Road, Southern Pines. For more information and registration, call (910) 692-3323 or visit sandhillschildrenscenter.org.

Live After 5

On Friday, Aug. 10, the village of Pinehurst invites you to Tufts Memorial Park for another evening of great music and family activities. Food trucks will offer a wide variety of fare, or bring your own picnic basket — but no outside alcohol allowed. Beer, wine and other beverages will be available for purchase. The event is free, as are parking at the Village Hall and shuttle service to downtown and back. Berryfield performs from 5:15 to 5:50 p.m., and The Royal Suits from 6 to 9 p.m., performing classic rock, funk, Motown and more. The park is located at 1 Village Green Road W. For more information, call (910) 295-8656 or visit www.vopnc.org.

Sandra Brown to Present New Thriller

New York Times best-selling author Sandra Brown will be at the Hannah Center at The O’Neal School on Aug. 8. Her new book, Tailspin, is a spine-tingling thriller and tantalizing romance about a daring cargo pilot, Rye Mallett, caught up in the intrigue surrounding his mysterious cargo and the alluring woman doctor who intercepts its delivery. Tickets to this event are $35, general admission, which includes a copy of the book. Tickets are available at Ticketmesandhills.com and at The Country Bookshop. The event starts at 6:30 p.m., and doors open 30 minutes prior. The O’Neal School is located at 3300 Airport Road, Southern Pines. Info: (910) 692-3211.

Om’erica: The Yoga Fest

Hot Asana Studio is hosting a day of yoga to celebrate military veterans on Saturday, Aug. 4. Veterans, all of whom are certified yoga instructors, will teach the event’s three outdoor classes. The businesses and vendors represented are owned by and support vets. The cost is $30, which includes access to vendors and three classes. A portion of the proceeds will send one vet through training at the Hot Asana Yoga University, another portion goes to the Exalted Warrior Foundation, which facilitates yoga instruction for wounded warriors. Vendors will open at 7:30 a.m., and classes will be at 8, 9 and 10 a.m. Tickets are available at the door, but space is limited, so reservations are suggested. The Yoga Fest will be held at the Sunrise Theater Greenspace, 250 N.W. Broad St., Southern Pines. For more information and tickets, visit www.hotasanastudio.com.

Sandhills Broadway Series

The Sandhills Repertory Theatre presents Marissa McGowan and Michael Mendez in “Out of The Friend Zone,” a cabaret-style concert. Through Broadway songs, the two stars relate how they started working together, became friends, and ultimately fell in love. The concert will be at the Hannah Theater Center at The O’Neal School, 3300 Airport Road in Southern Pines. It starts at 7:30 p.m. Saturday, Aug. 18, and at 2 p.m. Sunday, Aug. 19. Tickets are $32/general; $30/seniors and military; $20/students and can be purchased online at www.brownpapertickets.com/event/3438061. The Given Library and The Country Bookshop are selling senior and military tickets only. Tickets at the door will be $35. Proceeds will help fund arts programming in the schools and special needs arts programming in the community. For more information, call (347) 385-4207 or (910) 692-6920.

 

Summer’s Perfect Pairs

Taking advantage of August’s garden treasures

By Angela Sanchez

Summer is an abundant time, especially in the Sandhills. There’s an abundance of sun, heat, humidity and yummy produce. How amazing is it to eat a fresh, vine-ripened tomato in season? Heat-loving basil and oregano grow so rapidly you can’t pick them fast enough before they bolt. There’s sweet corn on the cob, lots and lots of zucchini, and yellow squash growing like weeds. Don’t forget the beautiful peaches so sweet and juicy we have to race the bugs for them. One of my personal favorites, the cucumber, is perfect this time of year, picked just before it gets too big and loses its sweetness. I love the way it protects itself from the blistering sun by hiding under its broad leaves and prickly vines.

My love of delicious, local summer produce is only equaled by my love of great wine and beer. So, naturally, I try to pair them as often and as well as possible. The following are some of my favorites, made with the goods we haul off our family farm, and using the cheeses and wines we love. They are simple and easily prepared without cooking. Let’s face it, who really wants to stand in the kitchen with an oven set at 450 or over a blistering outdoor grill when it’s already 95 and the humidity is 80 percent?

The summer tomato is one of nature’s most perfect fruits. Full of sweet, juicy flesh with a bright acidity, it needs a rich cheese like burrata, a fresh mozzarella with whole milk cream added. The rich and creamy fattiness of the cheese is a complement to the bright bite of the tomato. Slice the tomatoes and cheese thick and stack them or slice the tomato into pieces and set it alongside the burrata whole. Drizzle the best olive oil you can find over it. I suggest an herbal-infused or arbequina from Spain, with a pinch of sea salt like the solar-evaporated Sea Love Sea Salt from Wrightsville Beach. Add a crack or two of fresh ground black pepper. You can also use a flavored salt like smoked pepper or a citrus blend. The finishing touch is fresh basil and oregano cut and sprinkled to lend freshness and a peppery earthiness to the dish. Although not growing in season right now, you can toss in some of my favorite olives like the buttery green Castlevaltrano from Sicily to add a meaty richness. The accompanying wine needs to be clean, crisp and light. Gavi di Gavi of Italy has some weight and an almost oily mouthfeel along with a backbone of acidity. Some bright lemon and citrus notes make it a perfect pairing.

Zucchini can seem boring, but it can make a beautiful summer salad. Get it fresh and of the right size — at least the length of your hand and about 3/4 to 1 inch in diameter. A sharp vegetable peeler is all you need to make long slices, the more uneven the better. Lay them out on a large platter and drizzle with the same great Spanish olive oil, sprinkle with salt and pepper and top with basil and oregano. I like thyme here also. Shave Parmigiano-Reggiano over it, the more the better. Use Italian Parmigiano, not an imitation. A cheese planer is the easiest tool but grated is another option. For a wine pairing I prefer rosé. French or Italian is always good, but for this I like a Spanish rosé with a bit more weight, like Mas Donis. It is a blend of grenache and tempranillo, rose-violet in color, fruity and herbal but clean. It holds up nicely to the richness and saltiness of the Parmigiano-Reggiano, but it’s not too heavy to overpower the delicate zucchini.

Last but not least, the cucumber cannot be denied when it is at its peak in season. You could pickle it, but why not try it with feta and a great marinade? Slice into 1/4-inch slices and toss in an olive oil marinade with garlic, salt, pepper and herbs. You can make the marinade in a jar and shake to mix. Pour it over the cucumbers and let them sit for 30 minutes to an hour. The feta should be top quality like the goat’s milk feta from Paradox Farm. It can be cut into cubes and marinated the same way, tossing them together. If you prefer, switch out the cucumbers for ripe peaches. No need to marinate them. With the cucumber and feta I prefer a light, easy drinking beer like Duck Hook from Southern Pines Brewery. With either version — cucumber or peach — a delicate and balanced sparkling wine such as 1928 Prosecco from Italy with just a hint of sweet fruit and a dry finish is just right. If you want something a bit drier, the 100 percent pinot noir, Jean-Baptiste Adam Cremant Sparkling Rosé from the Alsace region of France is yeasty and vibrant and tastes like summer, with strawberry and peach notes.

As we meander our way through August’s heat, be sure to enjoy its abundant produce and try something new while doing it. Drink well and think about keeping it light and refreshing, but stylish enough to add to the flavors of the season.  PS

Angela Sanchez owns Southern Whey, a cheese-centric specialty food store in Southern Pines, with her husband, Chris Abbey. She was in the wine industry for 20 years and was lucky enough to travel the world drinking wine and eating cheese.

Head of the Class

Waiting for something to click

By Renee Phile

I teach commas and stuff. Even through the summer. Some of my students are high-schoolers. Some are grandmas. More are in-between. Nothing thrills me more than a classroom of students who are ready — or not — to hear about where the semicolon goes or where it absolutely doesn’t belong. Nothing thrills me more than when a student asks, “Ms. Phile, could you look at this paragraph? Does it flow?” or “Hey, Ms. Phile, look at this sign I saw at the gas station. It’s missing an apostrophe. If I had a Sharpie I would have corrected it.”

Then there’s that point in the semester when all the papers, projects and tests need grading. Final exams are pending, grades are due. Everyone is exhausted and irritable, and I begin to wonder why the hell I started teaching in the first place. I spend every waking moment — at my son’s baseball games, waiting for a table at restaurants, sitting in meetings, at the stoplight — grading papers. Emails flood my inbox:

“Ms. Phile, can I have an extension on the paper?” (No way. You have known about the due date for six weeks.)

“Ms. Phile, sorry I won’t be in class today. My pigs got loose.” (True story.)

“Ms. Phile, I can’t come to class today or the rest of the week because my grandmother died.” (Hmmmm . . . that’s the third time she’s passed away. Obviously a very, very serious illness.)

“Ms. Phile, I know I haven’t done much this semester, but can I get extra credit?” (You can’t get extra credit when you didn’t get regular credit.)

“Ms. Phile, I know I didn’t turn in the past four papers, but can I turn them in still? I promise I did them.” (I can’t even reply to this one.)

“Ms. Phile, we have a beach house rented that week.” (Can I come and bring the boys?)

And my favorite how-to-endear-yourself-to-the-teacher, cringe-worthy question:

“Ms. Phile, sorry I missed class yesterday. Did I miss anything important?” (Ouch.)

At this point in the semester I’m thinking I may go back to school for something else, maybe carpentry or piano tuning or snake charming. But, the truth is the magical moments when a student lights up and “gets it” make my job amazing. The moment when a student’s writing improves; the moment when a student overcomes the fear of talking in front of others; the moment when I notice students teaching each other. Those moments keep me from getting a basket and a flute.

Let me invite you into my summer class: Research papers, which they have been working on for six weeks, are due tonight by 11:55 p.m. I walk into a room of talkative students and one, who I will call Matt, pipes up from the back row:

“Ms. Phile, what will it take for you to extend the due date until tomorrow? Money? Doughnuts? Reese’s cups? I know how you love Reese’s cups.”

“Matt, you’ve known the due date for six weeks. It’s in stone.”

An older student in the front row, who probably finished his research paper two weeks ago, rolls his eyes and mumbles under his breath, “I don’t envy your job.”

My 11 years of teaching flashed through my brain — whirlwinds, valleys, mountains, mostly mountains.

“I don’t know why not. You should,” I said.  PS

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