Having no cell phone means having no disembodied voice telling me where to go when traveling to the unfamiliar. Most of the time that’s a welcome reprieve from everybody else in my life either telling me where to go or thinking it so loudly I can hear them in my sleep.
I do own a GPS, it’s a hand-me-down from The Kid’s college days. But, it’s anything but user-friendly, and every time I touch it I lose the map I want and instead am given directions for a brisk 2,700-hour walk from my house to a soda shop in outer Mongolia.
Recalculating…
So, I had three pages of hand-written directions to get me to Ayden, North Carolina, home of the Skylight Inn.
And I did really well, too.
Until I got about five miles from my goal. Then I wandered the countryside like a drunken time lord. I stopped at a convenience store and got directions. It took three more stops before I pulled into the parking lot of Skylight Inn—thirty minutes late.
As I pulled in, a truck pulled out. I didn’t know it, but it was driven by my host Sam Jones. He’d been waiting, but he eventually ran to the post office.
He returned quickly, but in the meantime, I changed into boots and put my hair under a cap—I wanted to be able to go wherever Sam would let me. After suiting up I went around back. There an unexpected sight greeted me.
Sam, and his kingdom of logs.
About fifty feet from the restaurant and continuing as far as I could see was pile after pile of split logs, ready to be tossed onto the fire and turned into glowing charcoal to cook the pigs. Coming toward me from this forest was a young man pushing a wheelbarrow holding at least four million logs.
Vulcan of this forge is also known as Daniel Williams. He is the man who keeps the fire burning, the pigs readied for the pit, the pork cooked, and the golden skin as crispy as a bad perm.
The Skylight Inn cookhouse fireplace.
Inside the cookhouse, it’s at least 4000 degrees. But this is an old-fashioned place for an old-fashioned way to cook pig. So, the only way to regulate the temp is by shoveling more or less burning wood around and under the pig. The only thermometers used are the probe version to check the internal porcine temp for doneness.
When I arrive the pigs, which have been cooking overnight, are finished, and ready for the next step in their progress to becoming lunch. Mike Parrot, AKA “Chopper” comes in with a large basin and takes a portion of porker back with him into the kitchen.
I follow him in.
Chopper attacks the pig with skill, a touch of showmanship, and a pair of large, shiny, lethal-looking cleavers engraved with his nickname. He also has the same design tattooed onto one bicep, made toned and strong from the breaking down of up to ten or more pigs a day.
Mike asks me if I’d like to give it a whirl. On any other playdate I would happily roll up my sleeves and jump right in, here I regretfully decline. I know myself, and I know that any length of time wielding those weapons of deconstruction would give a new nickname.
No Chopper for me; I’d forever be known as “Stumpy”.
The day I spent at Skylight was very full. So full, in fact, I have to finish this tale next week. Join me for a field trip with Sam, my first bite of cornpone, and more time in the forge.
Thanks for your time.
Last week I spent a couple hours on I64, traveling east, then a couple more back home.
It was at this point I felt unequivocally bullied. There was menace in their maneuver. At the earliest possible moment, they would go around, at a frightening proximity; both next to me, and when they pulled in front.
On my way home, this attitude struck me even more forcibly. You see, I was returning home after a day with Sam Jones, proprietor of Skylight Inn and owner of Sam Jones Barbecue.
One day the couple was traveling in Sam’s truck. He pulled into an intersection. And that was the last thing he remembered until he found himself crawling on the road, looking for Ashley. There had been a collision, ejecting both from the vehicle.
When rescue arrived, he wouldn’t allow them to transport him until Ashley had been loaded into the ambulance. With paramedics furiously attending her, the truck left, and finally Sam was taken so that his own, not insignificant injuries could be tended to.
Today, Jones is married with two young children. He’s also become chief of that volunteer fire department. He loves what he does and gives back every chance he gets. He’s smart, funny, cooks amazing Q, and tells a great story.
Every.Single.One.
Thanks for your time.
A reverent hush falls upon the congregants gathered around the altar. The assembled make way as the officiant approaches. A few hands tentatively reach out, as if to touch the great man but fall back before making contact.
It is though, a theology containing two distinct branches.
When I informed the entire Matthews family band that Sam Jones would be cooking, the full membership, consisting of Petey and The Kid, asked to come. I’d never eaten his cooking, but Chef James Clark, a friend whose food opinions I completely respect, says Sam makes the best barbecue in the state—which mean it’s the best Q in the world.
Sam had set up his traveling cooker in the parking lot. The building was raised about 15-20 feet above the paved lot, which created a balcony that looked right down onto the portable pit.
But the calm island in the eye of the Instagram storm was Sam, wearing a small private smile. Upstairs he chopped the falling-apart tender pork, mixing it with bits of the crispiest of pork skin. He then dressed it with generous amounts of pepper, vinegar, and Texas Pete. My timid palate quailed at the amount of hot sauce, but turns out, it was perfectly spiced.
He resembled the wise and sane Sheriff Andy Taylor in the nutty burg that is Mayberry. He said that as a child, “barbecue was in the armpit of the culinary community”. He’s glad of the shift in perception, which means he can introduce more people to the food his family has been proudly cooking and serving since the middle of the 1800’s.
Thanks for your time.
My folks just got back from Pittsburgh. Dad’s from there and they went up to visit his sisters. They drove and stayed at his big sister’s house.
Now when Petey and I go out of town, even to see friends and family, we stay at a hotel. Everybody has a happier visit.
From east to west;
When you get hungry, try Elmo’s Diner, Toast sandwiches, and Watts Grocery on Broad St. If you’re feeling indulgent, try the Cupcake Bar or The Parlor, for amazing made in-house ice cream.
Greensboro. Try the Greensboro Science Center or the Greensboro Children’s Museum. For a scary good time, take the Ghost and Vampire walking tour. Elm Street downtown has numerous cool little independent shops, including a bookstore that serves beer. There are numerous parks, including Bur-Mil with tons of attractions, including a working grain mill.
Friendly shopping center has plenty of mall-type stores and also some nifty locally owned businesses, including one of my very favorite kitchen stores, The Extra Ingredient.
Grab some eats downtown at Crafted, an artisan taco stand/burger joint. And right down the street is my newest, most delicious find; Cheesecakes by Alex. They’ve got around twenty different cheesecakes, but I beg you, try the lemon/blueberry layer cake with yummy buttercream. Two other eateries I recommend are Monterrey Mexican (try the street style carnitas tacos), and Jam’s Deli, with awesome sandwiches and one of the best restaurant potato salads I’ve ever had.
Boone/Banner Elk area. Mast General Store in Valley Crucis. You can easily spend a day here and need to come back again. At the corner of Highway 105 and Broadstone is The Ham Shoppe. These guys will put together a terrific picnic for you. Plus they have lots of local treats like cake and mountain made butter.
Blowing Rock is an adorable village that’s better experienced on foot. Tons of shops and great places to eat. Plus, there’s a Kilwyn’s with all the fudge and ice cream that implies. Their blue moon has been my very favorite since childhood.
Thanks for your time.
I don’t like this hot, gross, humid, maddening weather—at all. Not even a little. I don’t like the bugs. I don’t like the way the scent of a ripe trashcan or a spill from a garbage truck reeks in a malevolent, aggressive way that lingers for days. I hate the weather turning my sleek bob into a frizzly fright wig. I hate when it’s hot and muggy and there’s not a fresh breath of air to be had outside; even in the middle of the night. 
The only good thing about this time of year here in NC is the produce and the fireflies.
Use the birds in place of any protein that’s too hot to cook. Honestly, it’s so versatile it’s the little black dress of food. Tacos? Yup. Pasta? Yes ma’am. Pizza? Why not? Quiche? Oui, oui. Chili? Well, it’s kinda hot for chili, but you do you. 
Stock your fridge with fresh greens, fruits, and veggies that can be eaten raw. Stone fruits are in season, so enjoy cherries, peaches, apricots, plums, and pluots, a plum/apricot hybrid.
I offer my own personal salad recipes as catalyst for your taste and imagination: mixed baby greens, shaved red onion, goat cheese, a handful of dried cherries and cranberries, and butter toasted, salted pecans (I do a huge batch of pecans either late at night or during cool-ish rainy days, and keep refrigerated). The dried fruit and nuts are a terrific take-along snack, too.
My other salad, which I call my detox is also simple, delicious, and requires not one degree of heat. It’s just baby spinach, shaved red onion, halved grape tomatoes, and chopped avocado. I dress it with the juice from half a lemon. The fat in the avocado eliminates the need for another fat for the dressing. Just don’t forget the salt—avocados demand a heavy hand with the Morton’s.
Thanks for your time.
My mom could be the archivist for the entire history of the entire world. She’s not been around quite that long, but that woman is crazy organized.
Which is why, when I asked if she had “The postcard from camp” for me to borrow, in literally 45 seconds, she was handing it to me, and threatening to commit bodily harm upon my person if I lost it or forgot to give it back (I had The Kid photograph and email it to me, so it never left the house). Bodily harm avoided.
It was 1973, I was nine years old and spending a week at Camp Matoaka in Suffolk Virginia. It was a sleepaway Girl Scout camp which unfortunately closed in the 80s.
The first letter I sent to my folks was a cry of anguish. I hated it, I wanted to come home, why did I have to be at camp, I wasn’t eating or sleeping, and was thinking about going over the wall and walking home (5o miles) all by myself. Mom was beside herself. She was ready to get in the car and drive north at unsafe speeds to break me out.
Luckily my Dad talked her down. I stayed for the entire session. But, when our tent counselor found out about the note she “strongly encouraged” to write again and tell her I was fine, I’d gotten over my homesickness. It was actually very wise on her part, now that I’m a mom I know the pain and worry that a kid can inflict upon a mother.
This is that note, originally written in a third-grader’s careful, ornate cursive; verbatim:
As you can see, punctuation was not my friend, nor was spelling (but, I guess the phrase, “As you can see” is a very close, personal chum). As an English major, it pains me. The knife was from the camp-created packing list and we were meant to do scout things with it, it wasn’t for some West Side Story rumble in the forest.
I also have no idea of who Jan was, or why she was interested in a hotel in Elizabeth City, but have no doubt the information was sent by return mail.
Thanks for your time.
This week there isn’t much snappy patter or witty bon mots. The room I would normally use has been taken up by a recipe from Julia Child. It’s got a lot of steps but none of them are hard.
Julia Child’s Tian de Courgettes Au Riz (Zucchini Tian)
Rub the squash against the coarse side of a grater, and place grated flesh in a colander set over a bowl.
While the shredded zucchini is draining (reserve the juices,) drop the rice into boiling salted water, bring rapidly back to the boil, and boil exactly 5 minutes; drain and set aside.
Gradually stir in 2 1/2 cups warm liquid (zucchini juices plus milk, heated gently in a pan — don’t let it get so hot that the milk curdles!). Make sure the flour is well blended and smooth.
Thanks for your time.
And by not believing, I don’t mean the category of disbelief in which resides Paul Bunyan, the statement, “resigning to spend more time with my family”, and comfortable high heels. I know that phones, Twitter, and pathological sameness and oversharing exist; I just don’t believe those things are necessary to my life.
The boring truth is that I work from home, and when I’m out I don’t want to be bugged. Attached to my landline is an answering machine. I’m neither a brain surgeon or liable to go into labor, so don’t need to be connected in case of emergency.
Have you ever seen a movie with a robot or computer when they’re given input with a fatal logic error? They start jerking and clicking, twitching and smoking. Then they wave their arms and run into the nearest vertical surface, back up and do it over and over again.
I know I already sound like that cranky old lady that yells at those darn kids, so, I’m going all in. Here goes…
It’s the eyes. They are glazed, dead-looking, devoid of any emotion. They look like they have seen every single thing this world has to offer, and they’re completely bored by it.
So, it’s up to us to surprise and embarrass them every chance we get.
You wouldn’t think counting to four would be that hard, but I was having all kinds of trouble.
I was doing math with gelatin because I was making what you may call Knox blocks, or possibly Jell-O jigglers.
So, I bought a couple boxes of my fave flavor, black cherry, some Knox unflavored, and hoped for the best.
But when I use the unflavored kind for making homemade marshmallows or in savory applications, I never have problems.
It worked great. The finished product was clear and set with just a little jiggle. I cut it into blocks and store them in the chill chest in a zip-top bag. Since the weather’s gotten hot, I usually eat my way through a batch and a half a week.
Thanks for your time.
From Wikipedia: A Dutch uncle is an informal term for a person who issues frank, harsh, or severe comments and criticism to educate, encourage, or admonish someone.
When I was entering junior high (what they used to call middle school), our family was transferred from Puerto Rico to San Diego, where Tootie and Dave were living.
They were a brain jellifying cacophony to drive men mad. They were bedlam on the beach. I had zero interest and our day started bright and early around 4:30 in the AM when Uncle Dave’s camper pulled up in front of our house and we piled in. All the while I alternately griped about going, and begged to stay home.
Uncle Dave was a sail plane enthusiast. He owned a one-man glider and on weekends he and Aunt Tootie would go to Lake Elsinore. He’d fly, and my sweet, patient aunt would hang out in the camper with a walkie-talkie in case of emergency.
Because each sky-bound tow was expensive, and had to arranged in advance, we’d only go up once a day. The first day we went up for the usual 30-45 minutes. We readied things for the next day, had dinner, and bedded down.
We were up for six glorious hours. It was a shining, resplendent period of time that seemed singular, like I was experiencing another life in another time. I was so bewitched I was actually silent for whole minutes at a time.
And Aunt Tootie?
But the hero of the piece might actually be that creaky old camper of theirs. It gave us shelter and transportation. And for one racing averse, cranky teenager, it became refuge and sanctuary.
Thanks for your time.
bull city mom 