Biscuits

Here's an Andy Rooney-ish blog post for you.

Biscuits are a North Carolina thing.

I've always liked biscuits, though.  My mother used to use the Pillsbury refrigerated kind, and those were okay.  Bob Evans restaurants, all over Ohio, had great biscuits.  Bo Jangles's sausage biscuit is a guilty pleasure I've acquired down here.

Ipock's Country Biscuit Restaurant (founded by Carroll Glenwood Ipock, Sr., with Roy Fulcher in 1979) here in New Bern serves biscuits in about 231 ways.

So, I was glad to stumble upon two Southern biscuit recipes published in a blog at the Savor NC web site. They seem like the real deal.

Starting a new year

First look at New Year's Day.  From SkySail.

 

Ya know, I think I'm going to stop blogging.

It's been a year.  Not sure I'll have anything new to say, and especially nothing thoughtful.  My posts are sort of like an ongoing Christmas card letter. So, probably won't be blogging much in 2011.  But, I will check in on and appreciate the more thematic (Hope for Limpopo, travel, crafts, food, foster animals, events, arts, etc.) blogs that I subscribe to.

Seasons

November 9, 2010

It's an absolutely beautiful day here on the creek. 65 degrees, sunny.  Fall is subtler here.  No bright yellows, oranges, reds.  Instead, rust, sienna, russet. The hoary Spanish moss stands out more without competition from dark green foliage. Brilliant crimson berries on the fading dogwood over our deck, though!  It's disorienting for us Northerners, as lots of perennials come to life this time of year here after struggling and waning with the high heat and humidity of summer.  This mint was feeble and scrawny during the "growing season"; now look at it! 

Mint juleps, anyone?

People set out pansies now for color in the garden. We're warned not to plant most bulbs until December.  For an herb garden planned for around our back steps, we bought a modest rosemary plant at the Tryon Palace plant sale in October.  It should be able to winter over and become a shrub.  But, the North Carolina hummingbirds will have migrated South by the end of October, so today I brought in the feeders to store until next March.

Last Friday I went to a concert by an 18-year-old piano prodigy, Matt Savage, at Pamlico Community College.  I'd never been to that campus, and driving in the dark down Route 306 I kept thinking, "Where the hell am I?"  After passing a cinder-block Shriners hall, a farm or two, and some low ranch houses and double-wides, there was no light on the road, and only the shapes of trees on either side, the road as straight and flat as a runway. Finally there was PCC's sign, and a fully lit parking lot packed with cars.  I was late and sneaked in between numbers. The pianist looked like a skinny Harry Potter, and his sidemen (bass and drums) looked like chunkier Michael Stipes. As they jammed, I thought, wow, must be amazing to have that gift so young, not having to work at it, both as composer and performer. He did seem a little awkward when speaking: "New Hampshire [where he's from] has seasons and Boston has seasons and North Carolina has seasons.  And they're beautiful.  Heh, heh."  Only at intermission, when the house lights came on after a splendid rendition of a Thelonious Monk (one of Mr. Matt's favorite artists) number, did I see in the program that "Matt Savage did not play a musical instrument and could not tolerate listening to music a mere 6 years before taking the stage in 2004 at Birdland.  At age 3, he was diagnosed with Pervasive Developmental Disorder, a...type of autism.  Matt could not withstand sounds of any kind and could not communicate easily." For 4 years, he had intensive therapies, and then "his musical skills flourished at an accelerated pace. Matt taught himself to read and play piano music literally overnight."  So.  So much for my assumptions about how "easy" it is for the "gifted." Loved the show and his music; his New Age/jazz stylistic dichotomy supports the country/city theme in his new CD, and the jazz always keeps the New Age-iness from lapsing into sentimentality. His new CD is called "Welcome Home," and explores his changing idea of what home is, reflecting his move from the family farm to Boston (Berklee College of Music). As a transplant myself, his concept spoke to me.

Also when the lights came up, I could see how..., ahem, mature the audience was. If the performer is in the springtime of his life, seasonally speaking, his audience was definitely in the winter of theirs. Yes, a few younger couples, and even a child or two, but no one of "traditional college age,"--the ubiquitous demographic in the Pioneer Valley.  Lots of gray and white heads. Lots of difficulty navigating the stadium-style stairs.  Probably no Frances Crowes among them--although I don't want to be making any more false assumptions!  Visibly different attire from Northampton, Massachusetts: ladies in appropriate make-up, earrings, and pantsuits, greeting each other with "Miss," a friendly Southern custom I do like:  "Well hello there, Miss Judy."

Bravo to the Pamlico Musical Society (with the unfortunate acronym of PMS) and sponsors for bringing an ongoing and varied series of concerts to the area. As well as South Arts and the National Endowment for the Arts (hooray for our tax dollars at work).

So, this afternoon, off to the tennis courts--another thing that's in season practically year round!

Fall is coming....

View from our back yard.

....even though right now it's 85 degrees and sunny!

Mum Fest reports

Picture-perfect weather helps draw thousands to MumFest opening 
   ---New Bern Sun Journal

The male gospel group we saw performing at The Galley was a highlight--super voices and harmony, ending with the lively O'Jays hit "Love Train" with  local place names incorporated.

This year, though, seemed like there was a superfluity of booths with low-end jewelry; Avon, Tupperware, and Mary Kay; and fried turkey legs. One good photographer had a booth...but, this isn't a craft show, after all. Lots of people wearing the GOP candidate stickers, few with the Dems'.  Supporters of "A Child is a Gift from God" were across the street from supporters of the "Mountain to Sea Trail." Enjoyed a few minutes watching some youths in a (sanctioned and officiated) wrestling match.  We skipped the Christian rock concert in the early evening--with a comparatively steep separate admission charge of $20 ("Kutless having just over 1.5 million albums sold and Sidewalk Prophets fresh from winning New Artist of the Year at the 2010 Dove Awards").

Speaking of charges, lemon shake-ups seemed price-fixed at $5--I think they're $3 at the Ohio State Fair--so I skipped that usual fair favorite.  $5 for water, sugar, and half a lemon? That led Tim to suggest one could do an insider's guide to fair concessions, but I think that would involve sampling far too many funnel cakes, bloomin' onions, buttefly potatoes, and sausage sandwiches. 

We walked the entire Mum Fest route in gorgeous weather.  Then, when we were ready to cross the river to our parked car, the drawbridge seemed to be malfunctioning. Even when no boats were passing, traffic wasn't allowed over. So, with everyone else who'd intended to walk back, we got in the long line for the Water Taxi, starting to feel hot and tired, but enjoying the view.

Finally, the bridge closed, and we trudged back in the line of those leaving the Fest, weary but contented.  Weirdly, we were behind the very same four young people whom we'd followed across the bridge TO the event three hours earlier.  Mum Fest Twilight Zone?

Hooray for Mum Fest, for the people-watching alone. As we left, one mother said to her family in a Southern accent, "I ain't goin' on no ride."  We didn't, either.

High and dry vs. wet.

We're back at the creek after a sweaty-palm landing in thick clouds and rain, with a couple of jolts and a second try at landing by the pilot who said, if not in so many words, "Oops, I missed my turn."

It is good to be on land again, even if it isn't dry land.

The afternoon we got back, I left for the supermarket but turned around mid-stream, so to speak.  Brices Creek Road and Madam Moore's were in places awash with overrun that could have deepened to impassable by the time I returned with organic milk and bread.  So I went back to trusty ol' Merchant's for hot dogs and (farmer owned) Maola 2%.

School is still canceled in nearby Vanceboro and some other counties due to flooding. The creek rose high enough to cover our dock, but has since receded. It's still over the federal forest marker post, our usual gauge.  Saturday was sunny enough for morning tennis but yesterday and today are overcast, cool, and dampish. So I baked cranberry scones for breakfast.

We enjoyed our holiday so much that we are thinking about returning to Grand Canyon in a couple of years to do more hiking, now that we have the lay of the land.  We wouldn't mind getting our same cabin again, although within the various accommodation groups, room assignments are allegedly random.  This was our view from 6151, Bright Angel Lodge:

Now, even without Photoshop, that's a little deceptive because our window also overlooked a gathering spot for fellow tourists, but we also enjoyed the people-watching (and listening, although most canyon-watchers are remarkably reverent.  We did hear one woman sharing with a tour-group companion that her nephew died in a hay baling accident, and her son got hit with both a baseball bat and a golf club in his youth).

For a more hushed and sublime (in the Romantic sense) Canyon experience, we walked a mile to Shoshone Point which a guidebook recommends for its solitude.  When we arrived, another couple was just leaving, so we did indeed have the Point and its vista hauntingly to ourselves.  Tim did venture out onto the jutting rock (sheer cliff, no guardrails, as in much of the Park) until his acrophobia kicked in.  I lingered long enough to shoot video (it pans a little fast--I'm not used to shooting "movies"--so don't get dizzy!) just to share the astounding 350-degree view.  However, Blogger's getting errors when I try to upload, so I'll have to do it later.