Southwords

Puppy Prison

Life on the night shift

By Beth MacDonald

My husband, Mason, volunteered to build a new shelter for animals at a county facility occupied by a particularly adorable, needy shepherd mix. Every day he’d show up, “Adorable” would playfully beg him for attention. He sent pictures via text message to our daughter and me that, when opened, played that Sarah McLaughlin song “In the Arms of the Angels.” Our daughter took one look and said, “Bleeding hearts unite!” I wanted to know more.

Her adoption ad read like this: “This cutie-pie loves long walks, playing tug of war, ‘Dungeons & Dragons,’ and other games like ‘Drop My Shoe.’ She eats everything she sees; rocks are her favorite snack. She’s definitely the type of dog that will get her head stuck in a banister. Her best friends are the worms and parasites that infest her. Her favorite color is white to match the contamination suits you’ll be getting if you take this lovable, good-natured heartbreaker home!”

Welcome to the family!

The newest member of the Mac Pack needed a name. We figured we’d wait a few days to see what her personality was like, and how she interacted with our other dogs, before committing to some boring name that had to do with her coloring. The first few hours alone with her produced some good front-runners such as Nononononooooo, Wheresmyshoe, and Yougottapeeoutside (which sounds French if you say it fast with the accent on the last two syllables). By our second visit to the vet for her bi-weekly checkup, I was so exhausted from “puppy watch” that when they asked to confirm her coloring was black and tan I said, “Yes, please. And hurry.” I thought they were offering me a drink. We almost named her Stout.

Like our other two dogs, we decided to crate train her to help with housebreaking. The older dogs have been out of their crates and managing the house for years. They do most of the cooking, cleaning and handle the bills, thanks to the trusty crate. House training the first week became “a thing,” as Mason says. We all agreed to shifts watching the dog — actively, not passively — to keep the house and yard clean, given her best friend infestation. I had first shift; Mason took the late shift.

The first night in her crate the puppy sang the song of its people all night long. We tried our best to ignore it, but even our oldest dog barked a harsh, “Silence! We sleep at night!” a few times. At 3:33 a.m. (I checked the clock to validate my self-pity), I gave up and let her out. She wasn’t interested in going to the bathroom outside. She much preferred the hardwood floor toilet. I took her outside anyway, but she only wanted to play with all the horrors lurking in the dark. Great! Me too!

I started brewing my coffee once I got back inside. I was up for the day. My oldest dog sat at my feet and asked for a light roast. Before 5:00 a.m. we covered several training modules such as “Appropriate Chew Toy Replacement,” “The Meaning of the Word No,” “No Means No,” “No Really Means No,” “Down,” “Drop My Shoe,” “How About You Eat Dad’s Camouflage Crocs,” “How to Properly Disinfect a House Before Consuming Coffee,” “Land Navigation for Dog Poo Deep in the Bushes Sans Flashlight,” and we completed 30 minutes of cardio doing laps around the living and dining rooms trying to get my shoes back.

By the end of the first week we realized we were just night shift jailhouse guards. The puppy had begun her set of auditions for her career as a blues singer the minute we put her to bed. The oldest dog asked me to put on some PBS programming to drown her out until her voice coach could get her on par with Etta James. I started to Google life hacks for keeping your eyes open when sleep deprived. Mason chimed in with his Ranger school advice and suggested a Copenhagen dip or toothpicks in my eyelids.

After a few weeks she settled into a nightly routine doing a 30-minute set of her favorite prison songs before finally letting us sleep. Most days she was up by 3:30 a.m. trying for her own Shawshank Redemption. After removing a poster of Raquel Welch and a worn-out bone fashioned into a hammer, I began the shuffle to get her outside before she had an accident. One night it was raining. I put her down, looked at the sky, and wondered whether the real Andy Dufresne was Tim Robbins or me  and when I’d be free from the first shift.  PS

Beth MacDonald is a Southern Pines suburban misadventurer who likes to make words up. She loves to travel with her family and read everything she can.

True South

Make a Note of It

A catalog of the oddities of life

By Susan S. Kelly

For a certain kind of writer — OK, this kind of writer — what’s in your Costco cart, and what you do at night to get ready for bed, is invaluable and fascinating. Unfortunately, this sort of ephemera, discussed offhand in a grocery store parking lot, or city park, or next door on the treadmill, or at the office water cooler, tends to get lost, forgotten or ignored while you’re bringing in the trash cans, refilling the copier paper tray, or debating shredded or chunk parm.

So I make a practice of writing everything down, copying it to the computer, printing it out, punching holes in it, and filing it in notebooks under tabs, just like you did in fourth grade. A new year seems like a good time to revisit these collected works, and reconfirms my opinion that people will tell you anything.

What you may classify, in today’s parlance, as oversharing or TMI is pure gold for a writer. You never know when you’ll need an offhand comment like, “My grandchildren all sound like outlaws or whaling ships: Sophie Morgan. Casey Jackson. Wyatt James,” to punch up a scene. Or my friend’s house cleaners, a gay couple that comes while she’s at work, and routinely leaves complaint notes in the fridge saying, “Why don’t you get something decent to eat?” And while we’re on the subject of fridges, there’s my friend who told me she looked so terrible one day that she couldn’t go out in public. Instead, she went to the drive-through window at Krispy Kreme and bought four bottles of milk. Because she remembered that, as a child, Krispy Kreme had the best milk.

It pains me that I will likely never find a place to use this email: “Remind me to tell you the story some time about the husband of our class valedictorian (who herself picked her nose and ate it in class) who came to a hometown funeral and his tooth moved when he talked. I didn’t see it, but it was well reported by another friend.” Still, I’m comforted that, sooner or later, I’ll probably be able to fit in my Charleston friend’s road trip with her history-buff father to visit all the Civil War battlefields. But only the ones that the Confederacy won. So much for revisionist history. And Gettysburg.

Next time you make a move, stay focused on what’s really important and do what one friend did: While everything’s being wrapped, packed and stacked, draw a big smiley face on the box that has all the liquor in it.

Embarrassment tales are a dime a dozen, but here’s one I bet you won’t find in that long-gone “Was My Face Red” page in Reader’s Digest. The day after giving birth, a friend was immensely relieved when the doc came into her hospital room. She opened her gown, showed him her breasts and said, “I am sooo glad you’re here. My milk has come in and they hurt so badly and can you look at them and tell me if they’re normal and give me something for them?” The doctor looked at the floor for a long minute, then said, “I’m the pediatrician.”

But seriously, what is it about underwear? Stories tend from the mild — the friend who stained (OK, steeped) — all her heirloom linens in tea for the perfect antique shade, which was inspired by the memory of her mother boiling her bras when she came home from boarding school, to the lawyer who took off his blazer at work, not realizing a pair of underwear was stuck to the back of his shirt. Let that be a lesson to check your lint traps. Tricot has a natural affinity for non-iron Brooks Brothers shirts.

Underwear-related and completely unedited from the notebook original, this gem of a tail, I mean tale:

I know airport toilets are all about efficiency, but they are over-zealous. The best news is that every toilet I visited had seat covers plentiful, and I visited plenty between RDU, Dallas and Denver. So, I head for the toilet with 90 coats, backpack, luggage. As you disrobe, the toilet flushes because you’re moving. Then, I get the toilet cover assembled, and another auto-flush because you’re moving. Which creates the problem, because you’ve set the cover on the seat and it flushes the cover down, so you have to get another cover assembled. Of course it flushes again as you turn around to take off pants to sit down, but this time you’re holding the cover, but it keeps flushing forever and your cover is fairly mangled, so by that time you are holding it, trying to undo your pants and sit on it while it’s flushing, but still maintain sanitary integrity holding the seat cover and you sit down in a hurry still holding the seat cover that is trying to go down the toilet. It was exhausting and a complete waste of water.

And it’s only January. PS

Susan Kelly is a blithe spirit, author of several novels, and proud grandmother.

Sporting Life

Relief Guide

All’s well that ends well

By Tom Bryant

We were meandering around in the lobby of the old hotel like a couple of lost bird dogs. Bubba sidled over to me and said, “Well.”

“Well what? “ I replied.

“Where is that fool guide who’s supposed to take us sea ducking?”

“You got me. After that fiasco of a goose hunt this morning, he said he would have his man meet us here around lunch. It’s now 1 o’clock. Seems to me, it’s after lunch.”

“Coot, I don’t know how you always get us in messes like this.”

“What do you mean, me? It was your idea to bid on this guy at the auction.”

“I know, but he talked a good game. Maybe it is my fault, but you should have convinced me not to do it.”

“I tried, but your last gin and tonic had more influence than I did. Maybe he’ll show up. It’s early yet.”

We were on the Eastern Shore of Maryland, near the town of Easton to be exact, on a three-day Canada goose and sea duck hunt that Bubba had bought in an auction at our wildlife club. It wasn’t our first adventure in that part of the country. He and I had hunted on Bill Meyer’s plantation, Plimmhimon, on the banks of the Tred Avon River, and very successfully, I might add. But this misadventure only emphasized how good we had it at Bill’s farm.

Our early morning goose hunt was anticlimactic, to say the least. The night before, we had bunked at the fellow’s supposedly sumptuous clubhouse, which turned out to be a converted two-car garage attached to the good old boy’s house with bunks lined up along the wall. Bubba accused me of snoring; and a constant barrage of pillows, magazines and shoes kept me awake until he finally dozed off. Then an Amtrak train roaring through the front door couldn’t have awakened him.

The next morning we followed our learned guide in Bubba’s Land Rover as his old rattle trap of a pickup smoked down the road. We ended up at a long-ago picked cornfield that would have had a hard time supporting a field mouse, and a pit blind that needed re-brushing. This was our second day goose hunting, and our bag thus far: 0 for 2.

It didn’t take us long to settle in, and our guide said he was going to run over to his other farm to see if the geese were working there.

“Do you know what that means, Coot, other farm?” Bubba asked as the guide rattled away in his old pickup.

“Yeah, it means he’s going to town to get breakfast.”

“I’m going to catch up on some shut-eye. That snoring of yours kept me up all night. All the geese are probably down around Mattamuskeet anyway. Wake me if you hear anything.” Bubba made himself comfortable in a corner of the blind, and in no time, was dozing.

After about 30 minutes, as the sun was peeking over the horizon, I heard a lonesome goose calling in the far distance near the north tree line. I perked up and kept my eyes focused in that direction. In no time, three geese flew treetop high, heading toward the blind as if on a string.

“Bubba,” I whispered. I leaned over and grabbed his boot. I hadn’t even loaded my gun, so I was rapidly pushing shells into the magazine and shucked one down the pipe, ready to go. Bubba looked over at me and I said, “Get ready. You here to sleep or shoot?”

Bubba looked at me bleary-eyed and grabbed his gun. By then, the three geese were right in front of the blind, gaining altitude, heading to parts unknown. We stood, fired, and all three hit the ground.

We climbed out of the pit to retrieve the geese and Bubba said, “Coot, these are the three unluckiest geese in Maryland. They just happened to fly our way. Did you see how they flared when they saw those decoys? If this fellow, our guide, is a goose hunter, then I’m a brain surgeon.”  We put the geese in the blind and rearranged the decoys. “These decoys haven’t been moved since the season opened. When that guy comes back, I might shoot him.”

As the morning dragged on, our guide finally did show up. He was ecstatic that we had bagged three geese. “I saw several working over at the other farm, but they headed out over the river in the other direction.”

“Yeah, right,” I thought.  Bubba grimaced and didn’t say a word.

We spent the next hour with very little conversation, and after a bit, the guide said, “Well, fellows, we’ve got two options for the afternoon. You can come back here and try out the geese as they come in to feed, or I’ve got a fellow who will take you sea ducking. Your choice.”

Bubba answered, “You know what? We’re gonna get an early start in the morning, so here’s what we’ll do. We’ll go back to the lodge, load up our gear, find a couple of hotel rooms and meet your sea duck guide. We can clean the geese and have lunch while we wait. All you need to do is tell us where to meet this fellow.”

Bubba’s impromptu plan worked great. The hotel where we booked two rooms was right on the bay and had a marina where we assumed our sea duck guide kept his boat.

We were still in the lobby of the hotel commiserating about our lack of a guide when this young fellow came over to us and said, “I heard you guys talking about wanting to go sea ducking.”

“Absolutely,” Bubba said. “We didn’t think you were going to show up.”

“I’m not the guide you’re looking for, but I can sure take you hunting. If you haven’t been before, it’s quite an experience.”

He was right. It was unlike any other waterfowl hunting Bubba and I had ever done; and thanks to the young fellow and his boat, we had a grand time. We found out that he was leaving the very next morning for Alaska, where his uncle had a fishing lodge. He said he would probably get there in time for the opening of the season.

We also learned that he was, as he put it, “Fifty percent American Indian. I’m not particularly politically correct with this Native American thing. I’m proud to be part Indian.”

On the drive home, Bubba was in an unusually pensive mood as we talked about the trip and the lack of honesty shown by our goose-hunting host. We never did find out what happened to his sea duck hunting guide.

“And look at you, Coot, getting those two oldsquaw ducks. They’re gonna look good hanging on your wall.”

Bubba was right. They are two of my favorite duck mounts, though the oldsquaw name has been replaced, changed to “long-tailed duck” in deference to Native Americans. By any measure, they bring back wonderful memories of an unexpected guide who loved his heritage.  PS

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

The Accidental Astrologer

The Happiness Project

With a little effort, the world’s a better place in 2019

By Astrid Stellanova

Buh-bye, 2018! It’s all in the rearview mirror now, right? Not quite, Star Children. We tripped right on out of trippy December, barreling straight for the yellow brick road of the New Year, but first a check-in question for the New Age: Were you really good for goodness sake or was it to look good in your selfies?

Think about it. In the cosmic sense, all those clicks, likes and dislikes, will be relegated to the basement of history faster than a smiley face.

No matter, there are 365 days to get things right or just a little righter. Aim to do something to make this ole world twirl with happiness. — Ad Astra, Astrid

Capricorn (December 22– January 19)

It may have burned your biscuits that you didn’t get something promised to you, and you can blame it on that ole buzzkill buzzard Saturn, who’s been making you toe the line since last year. But take heart, little Goat, because the stars sure do point to a better twist in the tale. Hang onto your shorts, Love Bug. Things are resolving faster than you can say stink on a stick.

Aquarius (January 20–February 18)

New year, new you — which is saying something for Aquarians. You have a new sense of resolve, and Birthday Guys and Gals, I’m picking up what you’re laying down. Don’t let anybody trap you in just old ways of thinking or acting. You know what you want, you have resolved to pursue change, and don’t let your critics get in your head and change your mind. If there’s a bigger birthday wish you’re dreaming of than that one, just pucker up and blow!

Pisces (February 19–March 20)

Well, Honey Bun, you’ve been up since the crack of noon saying you have a whole new brand to build. Who are you kidding? You are not a Kardashian. Honey, you are you — the you that everybody knows and loves doesn’t have to follow trends or trolls to roll with fabulousness.

Aries (March 21–April 19)

Oh, yeah. You want everybody but you to tend to their own knitting, but just look at what a tangled-up skein of yarn you have made. Now get it straightened out and don’t Tom Sawyer one of your many friends into fixing your mess. Word is you have a nice surprise soon after if you take care of business.

Taurus (April 20–May 20)

Stranger danger, Sugar, but only from burnout. It’s too people-y out there to venture forth. Stay in a little more, read a book, snuggle on the sofa and keep your own counsel. You have been struttin’ your stuff day and night; it wouldn’t hurt one iota to spend a night or two being a couch potato with a bag of Cheetos.

Gemini (May 21–June 20)

Make sure your brain is as sharp as your tongue this month, when you get to feeling a little challenged by those near and dear. It is possible you are over-reacting, Honey, or just plain acting for the love of drama. It is a good month for holding back a tee-ninesy bit.

Cancer (June 21– July 22)

You had a hissy fit with a tail on it, and what did it get you? You got to eat a slice of hypocrite pie, because the very thing you got so riled up about is something you have done to yourself. While all this played out, you didn’t notice something worth noting. Open your eyeballs.

Leo (July 23–August 22)

You know horse hockey when you step in it. And you stepped in it. But here we are with a new year, new view and an open path around all the traps you fell into last year. Step high, keep your eyes wide open and watch the horizon. Tall, dark and handsome (or be-yoo-tiful) is heading your way.

Virgo (August 23–September 22)

You felt out of whack. You were stressed. And it was a lot of piddlin’ things keeping you off your game. The things that kept you upside down were not of your own making. Clouds are clearing. Pretend you are already feeling better, Sweet Thing.

Libra (September 23– October 22)

Skedaddle and make sure you leave before you get invited out the door. You were innocent but ignored the signs that a sometimes friend wasn’t so friendly. They take some warming up to, and the heater went cold, so find new friends and move along as if it never even happened.

Scorpio (October 23–November 21)

You have big plans but your own stomping grounds aren’t so bad. Dollywood is fun, but right under your nose there are all kinds of possibilities, Sugar Foot. Many are fond of your wit and wisdom. Don’t let the familiar turn you away or off.

Sagittarius (November 22– December 21)

This year could be a wing dinger, Sugar. It happens to be one of your better ones. You’ve been busy taking up with all kinds of unusual occupations and friends, and that is a good thing. You will broaden your view, and have a whatchamadoodle of a time doing it.  PS

For years, Astrid Stellanova owned and operated Curl Up and Dye Beauty Salon in the boondocks of North Carolina until arthritic fingers and her popular astrological readings provoked a new career path. 

In The Spirit

The Ice Has It

More than just frozen water

By Tony Cross

Years ago, when I was thumbing through my first bartending book, I came to a short passage about ice. It was only a page long, quick and to the point. It explained how ice is an ingredient and a tool. I came straight up off the couch. Sounds a bit dramatic, but it’s true. I had never given any thought to ice. None at all. This was before craft cocktail bars were everywhere and I had never seen any kind of “special” ice. While this may sound overly dramatic, the fact is, ice is just as an important as your spirits and mixers. 

Let’s talk about ice as an ingredient. We use it to chill cocktails by shaking and stirring but, at the same time, we’re using it for dilution. If you’d like to run a test, make two of the same cocktails. In the first one add all of the ingredients in any mixing vessel you have available and place it in the fridge to chill. Then, make the second cocktail by shaking or stirring. If you’re making a Manhattan, for example, you’ll stir the cocktail, and strain into a chilled cocktail coupe. Place both drinks side-by-side, and sample. You’ll immediately notice that the first cocktail tastes hot, or boozy. The second cocktail (if made with the appropriate specs) will taste balanced. 

Just because your second cocktail in this experiment tasted balanced doesn’t necessarily mean that it’s good. What kind of ice did you use? Was it the crescent-shaped ice from your freezer? If so, that’s no good. (Unless you have no choice, and it’s either bad ice versus no cocktail, and you’re losing your mind.) Even if your freezer filters the water before it produces ice, that same finished ice will soak up any odor coming from the rest of the compartment, e.g., leftover spaghetti that you froze last spring. Any smells from your freezer will be absorbed in your ice. The solution: Use your freezer only for ice cubes and buy ice molds online. I recommend 1-inch or 2-inch squares, and if you want to splurge, a gas-eliminating sphere ice maker from Wintersmiths. 

Here’s why these types of ice are a tool in your arsenal. The 1×1-inch (actually 1.25×1.25-inch) are the first molds I used. I didn’t have one of those Kold-Draft ice machines when I was bartending, so I always had to fill my trays (copious amounts, mind you) the night before my shift started. I used distilled water, and they would be ready the next morning. These cubes can be used to shake cocktails with, but are ideal for stirring. When stacked with orders, I’d stir my drinks as follows (for one cocktail): three 1×1 cubes, and a fourth that I cracked with the back of my bar spoon. I used a cracked cube to speed up dilution while the others chilled the drink to the proper temperature. If you’re shaking, 4 or 5 cubes will do the trick. 

The 2×2-inch cubes are ideal for shaking cocktails. I used to add the smaller size when shaking (and still do if I don’t have the larger ones handy), until I read a passage from Dave Arnold’s Liquid Intelligence book. He explains he was never on the “large cube for shaking” bandwagon until he conducted a test and found that when shaking your cocktail, not only are you diluting and cooling the temperature, but you’re aerating it. This gives your drink its velvety texture — just like that thin layer of foam that sits atop a daiquiri for under a minute after it’s first poured. Using a big cube also eliminates the chances of having tiny ice chards break off while you’re shaking and having to double-strain the drink. If you’re using a big cube to shake your cocktails, make sure you shake hard for at least 10 seconds. 

Now that you’ve stirred or shaken your cocktail, which type should you use if you’re straining it over a glass with ice? I’d opt for sphered ice, mainly because of the surface area to volume ratio it has in your glass. There is less surface area from a sphere than a large (or several small) cubes. Your drink will stay chilled without watering it down. Sure, if you use smaller cubes in that Negroni, it’ll taste great on that first sip. But the second half of your cocktail won’t taste the same. Bet that. Even using a large cube will dilute a drink quicker than using a sphere. Does this mean that you have to use spherical ice in order to have a proper drink? Of course not, but it’d be a lot cooler if you did. Worst pun ever.

A few final thoughts on ice. Clear ice looks very cool. And it is. (Second worst pun ever.) It’s clear because it doesn’t have gases trapped inside it. The gases come from impurities like minerals, bacteria and dust. When you freeze ice in molds, the cubes freeze inward, leaving the center to freeze last, trapping any impurities and gas. One way to get around this is by boiling your water, letting it cool, and freezing it, though it doesn’t completely solve the problem. Instead — and I learned this from Arnold as well — take a small cooler (4-6 gallon) that can fit into your freezer, fill it with water that you’ve already boiled and allowed to cool some. Place the cooler in the fridge with the top off. Give it 2 days to freeze, and when it’s ready, flip the cooler upside down on your countertop and let it sit until it’s wet and glistening. Using the appropriate tools (an ice pick and long bread knife) saw off the bottom layer — before you emptied the ice from the cooler, this was the top layer — with the impurities. Why go through the trouble? Because cloudy ice will melt at a much faster rate than clear ice. 

Lastly, what to do when ordering a nice Scotch or bourbon on its own? There are some of you that may disagree, but I add water to whichever spirit I’m enjoying. I used to order my whisk(e)y with one small cube of ice and I was told, “You’re ruining it!” No, I’m not. Adding even a few tiny drops of water is enough to open up the complexities that may be hidden to our palate. You can do this on the fly by asking for a small side of water, sticking a finger into the glass and flicking it over your neat spirit. Next month I’ll tackle proper ways to shake and stir a cocktail. James Bond be damned.  PS

Tony Cross is a bartender who runs cocktail catering company Reverie Cocktails in Southern Pines. 

Simple Life

Kid Up a Tree

Because of a father who loved the Old North State

By Jim Dodson

Half a century ago, my dad was on a creative team from a High Point–based ad agency that produced perhaps the state of North Carolina’s most iconic travel and tourism campaign. 

It declared the Old North State to be “Variety Vacationland” and featured beauty shots of our blessed land from the Outer Banks to the Blue Ridge Mountains, along with a catchy theme song that sounded like a college fight song sung by the Fred Waring Singers. 

It was called the “North Carolina Vacation Song.” 

North Car-o-lina, friendly mountain breezes,

North Car-o-lina, with its sandy beaches,

Wonderland of Variety . . .

Coast to mountains it’s great to be 

Right here in North Car-o-lina 

Love the pines around in North Car-o-lina,

Get your cares behind you

Livin’ is right in ho-li-day bright 

NORTH CARO-O-LINA! 

If you’ve reached a certain threshold of age, you probably know this classic and clever jingle word for word. In fact, you probably can’t get the dang thing out of your head six decades later. It’s stuck in there playing on an endless loop with Speedy Alka-Seltzer (“Plop, plop, fizz, fizz, Oh what a relief it is . . .”) and Mighty Mouse pitching Colgate toothpaste as he battles Mr. Tooth Decay.

My old man couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket, but he was a whiz at writing witty light verse, clever limericks and jingles in the style of Ogden Nash, the poet laureate of Light Verse, one of his literary heroes, the author of such timeless gems as:

My garden will never make me famous,

I’m a horticultural ignoramus,

I can’t tell a string bean from a soybean,

Or even a girl bean from a boy bean.

Or for you First Amendment Fans:

Senator Smoot is an institute

Not to be bribed with pelf;

He guards our homes from erotic tomes

By reading them all himself.

And lastly, a reassuring post-holiday ditty for those anxious about the post-nuclear age in which we reside:

At Christmas in olden times,

The sky was full of happy chimes.

But now the skies above us whistle,

With supersonic guided missiles.

This Christmas I’ll be modern, so

Here comes my guided mistletoe.

I suspect my clever papa had something to do with the lyrics of North Carolina’s wickedly infectious “Vacation Song” because he wrote lots of other memorable copy and commercials — print and television — that prompted large agencies in Chicago and Atlanta to try to lure him their way. 

He always politely listened to their pitches, but in the end stayed at home, his home, in North Carolina. Some of his favorite subjects, in fact, were rural counties he promoted with spots that illustrated their timeless qualities of life. My brother and I both wound up being models for a couple of these promotions. Brother Richard, circa 1964, is shown bird hunting with his “father” in a harvested cornfield on a beautiful autumn afternoon, revealing the rustic charms of Stanly County.

Yours truly, roundabout age 10, wearing jeans, sneakers and a buzz worthy of a Parris Island recruit, is shown sitting on a large tree limb staring dreamily off into the firmament over the green hills of Old Catawba, an ad for Olin Paper Company that found its way into several national magazines. I worked cheap; the sneakers were brand new, though I’m still waiting for my residuals. 

Most of all, our ditty-loving daddy, a product of the Great Depression who never finished college but went off to war and steeped himself in poetry and literature and history for the rest of his days, believed that effective advertising had to be both honest and true, which are not always the same thing. He worked on Terry Sanford’s gubernatorial campaign, for example, largely because of Sanford’s strong commitment to higher education, but turned down several other politicians he sensed were “too smooth to be believable,” as he liked to say.

I spent much of this past year thinking about (and sorely missing) my old man’s infectious good humor and belief in the power of humility, honest words and decent language — something that seems quaintly out of fashion in the time of a President who tweets insults on the hour, grades himself superior to Abe Lincoln and seems to have only a passing acquaintance with the truth. 

As a new and hopeful year dawns, and I wish my dad were still around to pick me up with one of his funny verses about the worrisome state of affairs, perhaps his muse Ogden Nash will have to suffice:

The American people,

With grins jocose, 

Always survive the fatal dose.

And though our systems are slightly wobbly,

We’ll fool the doctor this time, probly.

But wait — stop the presses! 

On an even brighter note, my daughter Maggie, who turns 30 this month and actually works as a senior copywriter for one of those large ad agencies that tried to lure her grandfather to the big city half a century ago, just sent her old man the pick-me-up he needed — three clever video spots she wrote for, of all things, Keebler Crackers.

Her “other” life is writing beautiful short stories, screenplays and a witty newsletter for her Book Drunk Book Club. But as her cracker videos clearly prove, genius skips a generation. 

Judge for yourself.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jupoZctbUJs
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8w_gQsiXevA
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CUs2437pRS4

Somewhere off in the firmament over the state he dearly loved, I’m guessing my old man might be grinning. Maybe his friend Ogden Nash is, too.

In any case, so you’ll never get it out of your head, I shall leave you with the rest of the famous vacation song. You can Google it, too.

North Car-o-lina, would you like to roll along scenic highways?

Let your travels bring you,

Face to face with history,

For new excitement . . . you’ll agree!

It’s all in North Car-o-lina

Bigger land of pleasure,

Life can be fine-er,

You’ll discover treasure 

Where the moon shines through tall green pines in . . .

NORTH-CAR-O-LINA!   PS

Contact Editor Jim Dodson at jim@thepilot.com. 

Mom, Inc.

The Truck Guy

And Marlena’s two cents

By Renee Phile

She dragged the mop over the sticky floor while I stood behind the register in my Chick-fil-A uniform — chicken breading smeared on my black pants. I was 17 years old, a senior in high school, working on nights and weekends to earn money to pay for my car insurance, gas, clothes, makeup, caramel lattes, you know, teenage girl essentials. 

Her bleached blonde hair, coarse as a scouring pad, was pulled back in a tight ponytail. Her face was tanned but weathered. A spray bottle hung from her left pocket. As she mopped she sprayed the tables and wiped them with a dirty towel. 

After my last customer walked away with his chargrilled sandwich, no pickle, I greeted her from behind the counter. “Hi, Marlena!”

“Hi, honey!” She beamed. 

“How are you?”

“I’ll be great once the truck guy gets here. It’s Thursday.” 

“Our truck guy?” 

“Yes, girl. Have you seen him?” 

I laughed. The truck guy was a hit among the single (and not single) women up and down the food court. He appeared every Thursday, armed with chicken breasts, waffle fries, cheesecake and other Chick-fil-A essentials. One of our employees would help him unload the truck and put everything into our freezer. Sometimes it was me. His green eyes sparkled every time he said, “Here, let me help you with that box.” 

“Marlena, I thought you had a husband.”

“Wes? Yeah. But he ain’t worth much. Doesn’t hurt to look, does it, honey?” She winked. 

I laughed and thought of my boyfriend and how awful things were. I was 17, he was 18, and had just gone away to college. It was a four-hour drive that might as well have been forever. 

“Can I get a No. 1 with Coke and extra Polynesian sauce?” said the red-haired woman. A cross between a rat and dog poked its head out of her purse. “And an extra fry for Scrappy,” she said. Scrappy. Yes, he was. 

I punched her order into the register. Marlena was straightening chairs in the lobby, hanging around so she wouldn’t miss the truck guy. 

The customer and her rat dog walked off. “Marlena,” I said, “my boyfriend just moved away. Should I break up with him?” 

She frowned, her eyes squinted a little. 

“Honey, do you love him?” 

“I don’t know. We’ve been together since I was 14.” A millennium in teenage years. 

“If you don’t even know if you love him, and you’ve been together that long, I’d get rid of him. That’s what I did to my first husband. My second and third one, too.” 

“First, second and third? Marlena, how many times have you been married?” 

She picked a crumb off the table, dropped it on the floor and swept it up. “Well . . . ”

“How many?” 

“Nine.” When the word escaped from her mouth, she looked like she wanted to stick it right back in there. 

“Are you kidding me? You don’t look that old!” 

“I’m telling you, Honey, when I get tired of them, I toss them. Life’s too short.” 

Right then the truck guy walked up to the counter with his paperwork, and Marlena’s eyes lit up while she patted her hair down.

“There he is!” she mouthed to me. I smiled and knew right then and there that all advice wasn’t created equal.  PS

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

January Bookshelf 2019

FICTION

No Exit, by Taylor Adams

After reading this you might think twice before turning in to a rest stop ever again. No Exit is a heart-stopping, adrenaline rush of a thriller that builds momentum right to the end. Five strangers are stranded at a Colorado rest stop at night during a snowstorm. A young college student, Darby, discovers a little girl being held captive in the back of a van by another motorist. What unfolds is Darby’s desperate attempt to formulate a plan to rescue the child, all while trying to determine the captor’s identity in a race against time and the elements. 

The Only Woman in the Room, by Marie Benedict

The author of The Other Einstein and Carnegie’s Maid has created yet another fantastic historical novel of a strong woman. Hedy Lamarr was a Hollywood screen idol known for her beauty, but there was more to her than just her looks. Desperate to escape the rise of Nazi control, she fled to America and became a film star intent on helping the American cause in the war. Her efforts resulted in a groundbreaking invention that revolutionized modern communication. Book clubs will love this book.

The Current, by Tim Johnston

If you read literary suspense, this is your book. If you are looking for a book you can’t put down, this is your book. If you need a story that will follow you for days, this is your book. New wounds open old wounds in this superb tale of unresolved loss and crime. Two 19-year-old college girls are frantically driving away from a terrifying encounter on a dark, icy Iowa road when their car plunges into a river. One young woman is found downriver, drowned, while the other is rescued at the scene. Determined to find answers, the surviving young woman soon realizes that she’s connected to an earlier unsolved case by more than just the river, and the deeper she dives into her own investigation, the closer she comes to dangerous truths, and to the violence that simmers just below the surface of her hometown. Johnston instills grief and grace, twists and escalating tension, and the tenacity of those left behind in this deftly written novel.

Half of What You Hear, by Kristyn Kusek Lewis

After losing her White House job under a cloud of scandal, Bess Warner arrives with her husband, Cole, and their kids to take over Cole’s family innkeeping business in Greyhill, Virginia, his hometown. But Bess quickly discovers that fitting in is easier said than done in this refuge of old money, old mansions, and old-fashioned ideas about who belongs and who doesn’t. When the opportunity to write an article for the Washington Post’s lifestyle supplement falls into Bess’ lap, she thinks it might be her opportunity to find her footing, even if the subject of the piece is Greyhill’s most notorious resident, Susannah “Cricket” Lane. As Bess discovers unsettling truths about Susannah, Greyhill, and the secrets of prior generations, she begins to learn how difficult it is to start over in a town that runs on talk, where sometimes, the best way to find yourself is to uncover what everyone around you is hiding.

NONFICTION

The Enchanted Hour: The Miraculous Power of Reading Aloud in the Age of Distraction, by Meghan Cox Gurdon 

Grounded in the latest neuroscience and behavioral research, and drawing widely from literature, The Enchanted Hour explains the dazzling cognitive and social-emotional benefits that await children, whatever their class, nationality or family background. It’s not just about bedtime stories for little kids: Reading aloud consoles, uplifts and invigorates at every age, deepening the intellectual lives and emotional well-being of teenagers and adults, too. Gurdon argues that this ancient practice is a fast-working antidote to the fractured attention spans, atomized families and unfulfilling ephemera of the tech era, helping to replenish what our devices are leaching away. Bringing together the latest scientific research, practical tips and reading recommendations, The Enchanted Hour will both charm and galvanize, inspiring readers to share this life-altering tradition with the people they love most.

Elephant in the Room, by Tommy Tomlinson

Nearing the age of 50 and weighing in at 460 pounds, Tomlinson, a columnist for the Charlotte Observer for 23 years, explores what it’s like to live as a fat man after deciding to change his life. Intimate, honest and searingly insightful, The Elephant in the Room is a chronicle for the millions of Americans taking the first steps toward health, and trying to understand how, as a nation, we got to this point. From buying a Fitbit and setting an exercise goal to contemplating the Heart Attack Grill, America’s “capital of food porn,” and modifying his own diet, Tomlinson brings us along on an unforgettable journey of self-discovery that is a candid and sometimes brutal look at the everyday experience of being constantly aware of your size.

One Breath at a Time: A Skeptic’s Guide to Christian Meditation, by J. Dana Trent

This book answers the questions: How does meditation fit into Christianity, and how does it differ from prayer? In secular mainstream America, meditation has become as ubiquitous as yoga. (Americans spend an estimated $2.5 billion annually on yoga instruction.) Trent reframes meditation for those who doubt its validity as a Christian spiritual practice. Using Scripture, theology and examples from the early Church, the book challenges Christians’ prayer habits that leave little room for enough silence to experience and listen for God. It provides a practical, 40-day guide to beginning and sustaining a Christian meditation practice in an often chaotic world.

CHILDREN’S BOOKS

Lola Dutch: When I Grow Up, by Kenneth and Sarah Jane Wright

Always bursting with energy and grand ideas, Lola Dutch has an unexpected emergency. She does not know what she wants to be when she grows up. After consulting a book (of course!), Lola decides she is destined to command the stage or become an astronaut, or a gardener or possibly even an inventor. There are just so many options and this is a wonderful problem, because Lola is excited to learn about every one of her possibilities. (Ages 3-6.)

Chicken Talk, by Patricia MacLachlan

The term “Chicken Scratch” gets a whole new meaning in this delightful barnyard tale from award winning author/illustrator team Patricia MacLachlan and Jarrett J. Krosoczka. (Ages 3-6.)

Dog Man: Brawl of the Wild, by Dav Pilkey

Dog Man is absolutely the hottest thing in books and he’s back for his sixth adventure. The crime biting canine, part dog-part man, will have young readers howling with laughter as he gets out of a “Ruff” situation and has to prove he is innocent of a crime for which he is sent to the dog pound! (Ages 8-10.)

Slayer, by Kiersten White

People are divided into two groups: the slayers, who hunt and kill demons, have amazing powers and are fierce in battle; and the watchers, who supervise and advise slayers. Nina and her twin sister, Artemis, are part of the watcher society. Both of their parents were watchers and they grew up around watchers. Nina is a medic, healing and helping, and not a full-fledged watcher. Artemis trains in combat and is competent and levelheaded. One day, Nina shows an amazing new skill and her world is turned upside down. She must make sense of her new powers and decide how to make choices on a path she has not chosen. (Age 14 and up.) — Review by Annabelle Black, age 15.  PS

Compiled by Kimberly Daniels Taws and Angie Tally.

2018 Book Club Top Reads

Before We Were Yours, by Lisa Wingate

A Gentleman in Moscow, by Amor Towles

Educated, by Tara Westover

News of the World, by Paulette Giles

Hillbilly Elegy, by J.D. Vance

Small Great Things, by Jodi Picoult

The Girl Who Wrote in Silk, by Kelli Estes

The Last Castle, by Denise Kiernan

The Rent Collector, by Camron Wright

Lilac Girls, by Martha Hall Kelly

Little Fires Everywhere, by Celeste Ng

America’s First Daughter, by Stephanie Dray

Papadaddy’s Mindfield

Give Me That Old-Time Music

The comfort of familiar hymns

By Clyde Edgerton

After New Year’s Eve is a good time to think over the past year — or maybe the past 75, especially if something pops up that gives birth to memories that emerge from behind stacks of present-day urgencies and conflicts. 

I’ve recently been looking through the hymn book I grew up with in a Southern Baptist church — the Broadman Hymnal: a staple for many denominations back in the day. My looking through this book gave fresh birth to old memories. 

Most people, as children, sang songs. For me, it was religious songs. And many children, because they sing songs written by adults, mess up the meanings of words. 

In Sunday School at my church long ago, we children sang “Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam.” I always heard and thus sang “Jesus wants me for a sunbean.” In my mind’s eye, a sunbean was shaped like a butter bean (translation: lima bean) and had a silvery, bright sheen. I wasn’t sure why Jesus wanted me to be one. Who was Jesus anyway? I’d not quite figured that out by age 4.

In my church, after Sunday School on a Sunday morning, we kids went into the big people’s church and sat still or squirmed for an hour or so — usually with parents, a parent, or someone else’s parents — while things happened around us, and in the choir, and up in the pulpit. We didn’t get the big picture until about the age 12, when we finally clearly understood the nature of the universe and our place in it. 

Early on, well before the age of 12, all the hymns seemed benevolent and kind and good, in spite of my recognizing in those songs images of war — as well as of peace — of fear and hope, of the wild and the tame, the obedient and disobedient. But because of my place in my community and church, because of my beliefs, I felt very safe, unthreatened. 

Approaching the teenage years, sitting or standing in the big church, we still didn’t always comprehend clearly. There’s that famous example: the hymn “Gladly the Cross I’d Bear.” As: “Gladly, the Cross-Eyed Bear.” 

A song like “Standing on the Promises” was hard for me to grasp. I was unable to sustain a meaning for a participial phrase, “standing on,” along with the abstract noun “promises,” in the same sentence. I visualized “promises” as bridge trusses made of human arms. People in a far-off country stood on them. Therefore, the meaning of the song, though I’d sing the printed words, was mangled. 

“When the Roll is Called Up Yonder” brought visions of a bread roll with ears and legs — ambling doglike across a green meadow, having been called: “Come, Fluffy. Come, girl.” I was there watching because the hymn said, “When the roll is called up yonder I’ll be there.”

Then, yo, and verily, verily, we became teenagers. 

Teenage friends were allowed to sit together, sometimes all the way back on the back row. We’d play “Between the Sheets.” Teenager A would open the hymnbook to a random page and whisper the hymn title to Teenager B. B would say: “Between the Sheets.” 

I’m sitting here with the Broadman Hymnal now, as I write. I’m about to open to some random pages. 

“Dare to Be Brave, Dare to Be True” . . . “Onward, Christian Soldiers” . . . “Blow Ye the Trumpet, Blow” . . . “I Surrender All” . . . You get the idea (and probably did before the examples). 

Now, as an adult, I enjoy singing the old hymns in church. I haven’t yet been able to enjoy contemporary religious music. I like what I heard as a child. Probably not so much because I did or didn’t understand meanings, but because back then I felt at peace. I felt very safe; meanings about life and the universe were absolutely true. Though my outlook has changed, it’s comforting to sing the old hymns, to reconnect with those feelings of security and peace.  PS

Clyde Edgerton is the author of 10 novels, a memoir and most recently, Papadaddy’s Book for New Fathers. He is the Thomas S. Keenan III Distinguished Professor of Creative Writing at UNCW. 

The Kitchen Garden

Black Drink

Carolina Tea — the only caffeine native to the U.S.

By Jan Leitschuh

What better way to take the winter chill off than a nice cup of tea, and a dollop of history? Say, an energizing “black drink” from the Outer Banks — sourced from a common shrub you might even have in your own backyard.

Mmmmm, pour us a drink, Luv.

And if you knew that this shrub’s Latin name was Ilex vomitoria — yes, you read that right, vomitoria — and that a tea from its leaves was used as a purge and emetic by Native American tribes . . . well, would you still be savoring that cuppa?

No worries, duckie. It’s simply bad press for an otherwise lovely dish of tea.

The yaupon holly, or Ilex vomitoria, is common throughout the Carolinas and has a solid and ancient history as a tea source fully grounded in the New World. A wild, perennial evergreen shrub, yaupon holly (pronounced YO-pon) is the only plant native to North America known to contain caffeine. The dried and roasted leaves of the yaupon are the source of North America’s only homegrown caffeinated beverage — yaupon tea. Historians tell us that yaupon leaves were used for centuries as a ceremonial tea by many native North American tribes. 

Later, European settlers tumbled to the benefits of the energizing beverage they called “black drink.” Yaupon tea was quite well known and widely enjoyed during the Colonial period. Take that, British East India Company and your Asian tea; into Boston Harbor with ye!

The tough little yaupon holly ranges across the Southeastern United States, from Virginia to Florida and west to Texas, but is numerous in the Carolinas. 

The Native Americans used it in purification rituals involving purging (thus, its Latin vomitoria). Lovely, right? But the Latin name is actually a misnomer, because yaupon is not an emetic, just guilty by ceremonial association. According to Charles Hudson, in his introduction to the book Black Drink: A Native American Tea, the scientific name derives from yaupon’s association with those purification ceremonies that entailed ritualistic vomiting, usually after adding seawater or other nausea-producing substances to the drink. But the tea of yaupon itself, as typically consumed, does not cause vomiting.

“Yaupon tea’s market was done great damage in the late 1700s by William Aiton, a Scottish botanist I believe was secretly in the employ of Ceylon tea merchants,” says Florida writer Francis E. “Jack” Putz. “In recognition of the use of an especially strong brew of yaupon in an Amerindian ritual that included ceremonial vomiting, Aiton named the plant Ilex vomitoria. Clearly this fascination says more about the early chroniclers of American life than about the qualities of the beverage.”

Wryly, Putz continues: “Researchers have revealed no emetic compounds in yaupon tea; it simply does not induce vomiting. That said, there were indeed special occasions when Timucuan and later Seminole warriors stood around vomiting after drinking large quantities of yaupon, but that was only after fasting for days and then singing, dancing, and generally carrying on all night; Kool-Aid would have had the same effect.”

Yaupon tea was actually a desirable prehistoric commodity, being exchanged at least as far west as Illinois. According to one source, over 1,000 years ago Native American traders dried, packed and shipped the leaves all the way to Cahokia, the ancient mound city near the confluence of the Missouri and Mississippi rivers by modern day St. Louis.

“It strengthens and nourishes the body, and yet does not fly to the head,” marveled French artist and North Florida explorer Jacques le Moyne de Morgues in 1564, after the native Timucua tribe offered the Frenchmen shells of the “black drink.” Thus was European teatime born in the New World. A Spanish priest in Florida reported in 1615, “There is no Spaniard or Indian who does not drink it in the morning or evening.” In 1791, famed Philadelphia botanist William Bartram noted in his writings that the Cherokee of Western North Carolina had obtained yaupon and it was under active pruning and cultivation. The Cherokee, he said, called yaupon “the beloved tree.”

Early settlers later enjoyed the black drink so much they traded it as a commodity to other countries. Not only was yaupon tea consumed regularly, especially throughout the Southeast, it was exported by ship to Europe, to be marketed as cassina in England and Appalachina in France. It was also traded from the Colonies under the moniker “Carolina Tea.” Apothecary shops dispensed it as a treatment for smallpox and kidney stones. English settlers of Carolina were said to drink the “Indian Tea” daily.

Later, during the Civil War, N.C. barrier islanders supplied the caffeinated leaves to cities blocked from importing tea and coffee. During the Great Depression and World War II, U.S. consumption once again spiked as tea and coffee became difficult to obtain. Folks needed their morning buzz! The drinking of yaupon tea persisted on the Outer Banks until the ’70s, and then lingered in island cafes. Ocracoke Island was the last known location to have served yaupon tea until recently.

While it once competed with Asian tea for a global market share, the antioxidant-rich yaupon tea dropped off the map for a while. The classic Chinese tea Camellia sinensis, was too entrenched, and some speculate that yaupon tea was later associated with the rural Southern poor at a time when coffee’s popularity was rising. Yet recent taste tests conducted at the University of Florida revealed an overwhelming preference for yaupon over its commercially available South American sister species, “yerba mate” — making it perfect for elevenses.

“Unfortunately,” writes Putz, “yaupon’s commercial potential was destroyed simply by the revelation of its scientific name.”

While many people today are still unaware of yaupon tea, it is experiencing a comeback, riding on the back of the farm-to-table movement for local foods, nostalgia and increased knowledge of its various medicinal benefits.

There is no need to import our teas from exotic continents, say fans of the yaupon.

“Our native yaupon is a delicious and healthy tea,” says Jan Mann Jackson of Jackson Farms. With her husband, Tom, the pair began cultivating the native tea on their 200-year-old traditional family farm on the other side of Fayetteville, in northern Sampson County. Although the Jacksons were among the first few farmers certified as “organic” many years ago, in recent years they discontinued the cost and paperwork of certification. “Although we have not changed our way of growing food,” says Jackson.

They acquired some yaupon holly from a yard in Morehead City to see if they could grow it on the farm for their use. “It grew well here,” says Jackson. They roasted the young leaves in the spring for themselves. Roasting makes the caffeine more soluble. Coffee beans are roasted for the same reason. The Jacksons found the tea quite delicious — no vomiting.

After perfecting their roasting methods, Jackson Farms began selling the tea leaves to restaurants and specialty shops about 10 years ago. Recently, they created a website — JacksonFarm.com — to sell their historic tea to the public. 

Their beautifully packaged processed tea retails for $10 per ounce, “which will make a lot of tea,” says Jackson. “We also stock it with other teas in our farm’s guesthouse.”

A strong Carolina connection to yaupon tea exists, as the beverage was enjoyed here through Colonial times and persisted quite a while on the relatively isolated (and yaupon-filled) Outer Banks. “I first drank yaupon tea in a restaurant on Ocracoke Island in about 1957,” says Jackson. “Then I ran into a mention of it in John Lawson’s A New Voyage to Carolina. It interested me, and I eventually ran into the book Black Drink, by Charles M. Hudson, and learned a good deal more.”

Yaupon tea is an infusion tea made from steeping the dried and roasted yaupon leaves. Yaupon’s caffeine content is said to be more than black tea but less than coffee, and is closely related to yerba mate tea, which shares some of the same active ingredients and nutrients. Some say yaupon has a similar flavor profile to green tea; others say it tastes more like a black tea. The smell is earthy, and the health benefits numerous.

Yaupon is anti-inflammatory, helping reduce the pain of arthritis and other inflammatory conditions, improves dental health and digestive issues, and has shown promise as a preventive of colon cancer. Yaupon, a diuretic like coffee and tea, is rich in the desirable antioxidants known as polyphenols, comparable to other so-called “superfoods” like red wine, dark chocolate, broccoli, blueberries and green tea. These polyphenols stimulate the immune system. Theobromine, also found in yaupon, has been shown to lower blood pressure. 

Aficionados say yaupon yields a jitter-free, energizing brew. Caffeine levels in yaupon vary, but are roughly comparable to green or black tea, so excess consumption would certainly lead to the jitters, just as it would with coffee. Depending on the strength brewed, the flavor can be anything from light, caramelly and buttery to intensely rich, complex, nutty and smoky, say fans. Yaupon is virtually free of tannins, so you can steep longer to bring out more flavor without risking the bitterness of regular tea. Perhaps the long steeping explains the name “black drink,” because a shorter steep yields a grassy, lighter tea.

In strong brews the slight bitterness of theobromine, coveted by lovers of dark chocolate, can be tasted. Theobromine (from Greek “food of the gods”) is the pleasure molecule of chocolate — the buzzy one that increases feelings of well-being, contentment and focus (and is also toxic to dogs).

The “black drink” can be enjoyed hot or iced, whatever your pleasure. By all means, support our local farmers and give this native tea a try, or ask for it at your local farm-to-table restaurant. And if you like it, you can try to make some at home, and beat January back with a steaming North American cuppa and a buttered scone. No need to raise your pinkie whilst sipping either, ducks.

“Backyard” Yaupon Tea

Know your plants, first of all. Be sure you know your yaupon. Collect fresh leaves, the newer growth if possible. Some say the females (the ones that produce the berries) make the best tea, but science has been unable to determine any chemical difference. Heat them (roast) in the oven at 300 degrees until they start to brown, about 7 or 8 minutes. Others simply blanch the leaves black in a skillet. Remove and add a tablespoon of crumbled leaves to your pot, and pour over two or three cups of hot (just-boiled) water. Steep for a few minutes, depending on strength preferred. Sweeten to taste.  PS

Jan Leitschuh is a local gardener, avid eater of fresh produce and co-founder of the Sandhills Farm to Table Cooperative.