Every Sunday morning, Zach makes Meemaw’s biscuits. Light, flaky, rich with butter, tender, and just about perfect. We eat them with scrambled eggs and thick-cut bacon, sometimes with sausage gravy when we’re feeling indulgent, sometimes with nothing but butter and strawberry jelly when we want simple. Every once in a while he makes them for…
The gothic half of a Maine trip: a Boston Spenser pilgrimage, a tropical storm, the easternmost point, a Bar Harbor ghost tour, and Stephen King’s gate.
A steamy Georgia-summer roundup: dirty spaghetti on the must-try list, Good Culture cottage cheese, the new Nora Roberts, cherry plums, and Kamado-grilled lunches.
How I photograph nearly everything on the blog with a dining room window, one collapsible reflector, and, on lazy days, a Domino’s pizza box.
The flat iron is a shoulder cut nobody writes poems about, and I’ll take a good one over a filet most nights. Dry-brine it, sear it hot and fast (550–600°, 2–3 minutes a side), rest it, then pile it on a crunchy blue cheese salad. Full method plus the leftover steak sandwich on the blog (link in bio). The amount of blue cheese is between you and your conscience. More is better.
Every fall, Zach and I take a week and go somewhere. Late September, early October, right before the holiday season turns into a demolition derby. We started it in 2019 and it has become the most protected week on our calendar. Tucson one year. Jekyll and Cumberland Island another. A big loop through Las Vegas…
An easy fruit salad actually worth making: strawberries and blueberries in a brown-sugar, Greek-yogurt, and citrus-zest dressing. No mayo, and it travels.
You can’t drive the South from Atlanta to Tulsa without driving through its history of racial and tribal injustice. What eleven hours and five states are actually made of.
It’s Pride, and this Saturday I’m walking the Roswell Pride Walk. So before the month runs out on a calendar full of fruit salad and steak, here’s the thing I actually believe: LGBTQ+ equality is line one of what I stand for, and it isn’t an abstraction. It has names, and they eat at my table.
Six days into a Tulsa road trip: a Route 66 bridge that sings Woody Guthrie, the best Moroccan tagine of my life, Tex-Mex since 1953, and two right slippers
: I came home from Tulsa obsessed with El Rancho Grande’s peanut butter jalapeños. The dish, the plan to recreate it, and a bacon-on-the-Kamado idea.
Carol’s potato salad is mayo, mustard, yellow onion, celery, and dill relish dressed on hot potatoes. No secrets. Just muscle memory and good timing.
