Summer Vacation Day 3: Back to Boone

I attended and graduated from Appalachian State University in Boone, North Carolina.  It was really the only school I was interested in.  I applied to UNC-Greensboro but never had any intention of attending. Not sure why I even wasted my hard-earned money to apply. I was very happy at ASU. College life suited me. I met the girl who was to become my best friend during freshman orientation.  Rest in peace, Melody.  I still miss you. I embraced becoming a Mountaineer, wearing black and gold and attending football, basketball, field hockey, and baseball games.  I even went to one wrestling match because a friend asked me to come watch. The campus has changed so much since my days there.  That’s a good thing.  It shows progress.  I had classes in these two buildings.

I didn’t venture over to the part of campus where my dorm is or where I took French classes. Not sure why.  I did pay homage to Yosef, our mascot.

Needless to say, I did not see anyone I knew.  It was orientation for freshman so there were a lot of parents of Mountaineers-to-be roaming around.  I talked to a couple of them. I took both of my boys to their freshman orientation— UNC-Wilmington and UT-Knoxville. Sad and exciting all at the same time.  A parental rite of passage. (I am really not very good at this selfie thing.  I take them when no one is looking because I am mortified that I am actually doing it. And how the heck did I go from wide-eyed freshman to wrinkles so fast?? Someone explain that one to me. Please. And while you are at it, slow the clock way down.)

So.  Food is very important to the Sabbatical Chef, as you know. After the campus crawl, I set out to find a restaurant I had read about thanks to the BFF and Our Statemagazine. Proper.

This used to be a jail.  How cool is that?? Yep. Circa 1896. If only the walls could talk.

I had what I can only describe as an epic lunch.  Legendary. I had already made up my mind to try the Tomato Pie that was described in the magazine article. Then the waiter started reeling off the daily specials. He got as far as baked grits before I interrupted and said “I’ll have that.”

Grits, cheddar cheese, spinach, tomatoes and pimiento cheese baked in that bowl (hot!) for 12 minutes. Served with Granny Smith apple slices and flatbread sea salt crackers.  Slap your mama good, as the BFF says.

I still ordered the tomato pie.  I knew that I would be offered a to-go box to take my leftovers home for dinner.

Sides of collards and succotash.  A biscuit for me, please.

A warm biscuit with melted, dripping salted butter.  Heaven in a little square.

Dinner.

Next on the tour, roaming around downtown. Lots of restaurants and shops now. Antiques/junk, consignment, Watsonatta is still selling the much coveted by me cowboy hats and boots. Still haven’t bought anything there, but I sure love to look.

Speaking of Watson, I met up with Doc Watson on the street corner.

A legend. I love this statue that was placed here in the town where he got his start.

(photo: http://www.downtownboonenc.com/index.cfm/doc-watson-statue/)

Next up, a visit to Appalachian Mountain Brewery.  I recently tasted one of their ciders and wanted to drink one on the premises.  Keep in mind that back in the day ( meaning my college years) Boone was dry (meaning you could not buy alcohol). Carloads of stupid coeds drove the 8-mile stretch to Blowing Rock and back on Thursdays for happy hour (meaning there was no such thing as Uber). The drinking age was 18, but I thank my lucky stars every time I think about this. I didn’t know anyone who died on the way back to Boone. That’s a miracle. I didn’t have a car so I was never behind the wheel.

Anyhow, I enjoyed the afternoon sun and cool breeze and sipped a Mystic Cider. Strawberry, rhubarb and green tea. I took my writing to the great outdoors on their patio.

I talked to a couple from Charleston, SC whose son is considering Appalachian.  And they are considering buying a place up here. A great idea, in my humble opinion. And I saw one of the bartenders from Blind Squirrel Brewery in Plumtree.  I felt kind of like a local again.  Actually recognizing someone.

It was a lovely, delicious day.  I intend to try to replicate the tomato pie when I get home. Until then, my Provençal Tomato Tart will have to do.  Proper’s crust is made from biscuit dough…

Tomato tart

One pie crust (see my vinegar crust recipe below) or store bought one you roll out
Dijon-style mustard
Grated gruyere or Swiss cheese
Sliced tomatoes
Herbes de Provence
Coarse sea salt

Preheat oven to 400 F.
Place the crust in a pie plate. Prick the bottom and sides and use pie weights, if you wish. Bake crust for about 10 minutes.
Brush the bottom of the warm crust with the mustard. Layer shredded cheese on top of mustard. Place sliced tomatoes on top of cheese, overlapping them just a bit. Sprinkle with herbes de Provence. (One friend makes a second layer of cheese and tomatoes.) Bake for about 20 minutes or until tomatoes start to shrivel and crust turns golden brown. Remove from oven. Sprinkle with salt.

Crust
(A great basic unsweetened crust for general pie-making.  It can be pre-baked for cream pies or used unbaked for filled pies.)
This recipe makes enough dough for four 9-inch pie shell bottowms or two pies with top and bottom crusts.

3 1/2 c. all-purpose flour
1 tsp. salt
1 c. shortening (or lard or butter or any combination– I use chilled butter)
1/3 to 1/2 c. cold water
1 Tbsp. vinegar
1 egg, beaten

Stir the flour and salt together in a large bowl.  Cut the chilled butter into the dry mixture using a pastry blender or by pinching the fat into the mixture with your hands.  The resulting mixture should have lumps no smaller than peas.  Add the vinegar to the chilled water.  Slightly beat the egg and mix with the water/vinegar.  Pour the chilled water mixture into the dry mixture, a small amount at a time, mixing gently with a fork until the dough is wet enough to be packed into a ball.  The dough should be handled as little as possible to prevent the blending of all of the fat lumps.
Split the dough into 4 equal amounts, roll them into balls and wrap them in plastic before placing them in the refrigerator to chill for at least 30 minutes.  Generously dust a clean, dry surface with flour and remove one of the packages of dough from the refrigerator.  Flatten the dough slightly and dust the dough’s top before rolling the dough out with a rolling pin.  Start rolling at the center of the dough and work outwards.  Quickly roll the dough into a circle 1/4 or 1/8 inch thick.  The size of the circle should be about 4 inches wider in diameter than the pie pan.  Carefully place the dough in the pan and press it into the pan, being careful not to press the dough too thin.   Cut the pie crust slightly larger than the pan and crimp the edges.
(Unused crust can be flattened a bit, wrapped in waxed paper, placed in ziploc bags and frozen.  When ready to use, remove from freezer, allow dough to come to room temperature and proceed with your recipe.)
Line the crust with a parchment paper circle and fill with pie weights, dried bean, or rice.  Place crust in a preheated 425˚ oven for 5-6 minutes, just until it begins to brown.

This little guy has been flirting with me and playing hard to get for a couple of days.  Finally snapped his photo!

Bon appétit, Yosef, Doc and Chef Angela Kelly! Eat good food. Support local businesses. Watch for the hummingbirds who cross your path.  Patience pays off.

Summer Vacation Day 2: Sticks and stones

Sticks

and stones.

I had a completely different idea for today’s post. Then I took a break from writing and decided to take a hike. It was a stunningly beautiful June day in the Blue Ridge Mountains.  Blue skies, 72˚F, cool breeze blowing, quiet. I grabbed my camera, my purse, my walking shoes and set off to acquaint myself with Mr. Moses Cone and his manor.

I worked in a denim factory for two summers, making Wrangler jeans, with Mama Mildred.  My nephew was born in Moses Cone Hospital, I saw an exhibit of the Cone Sisters’ art, Collecting Matisse and Modern Masters, twice when it came to the Nasher Museum at Duke.  I watched a TV special about the exhibit, produced by UNC-TV, several times. I am very interested in French art and this period of time in history, the late 1800’s-early 1900’s, is fascinating.  Growing up in the mountains I knew nothing about the Cones and Vanderbilts and their palatial estates until I was in high school. Moses, the son of a Jewish German immigrant (his father’s name was Kahn), and his brother made their fortunes in the textile business. There is little mention of his sisters, Claribel and Etta, in many of the articles about him, but they inherited money when their father died and, later, their brothers provided them with an allowance that they used to purchase art. They probably raised at few eyebrows at the time- neither sister married, one became a doctor, and they traveled to Paris, befriending Gertrude and Leo Stein as well as several struggling artists, including Picasso and Matisse. I love this quote from an article written by Edward Cone (yes, a relative) in Forbes magazine about the sisters:

The Cone sisters’ use of the family’s prosperity to collect fine artwork was unparalleled among other women. They were known as eccentrics and had a comical presence clad in their long Victorian dresses. When they went to the opera in Paris, they would buy an extra seat to hold their day’s purchases.

I would have been a hoot to meet those two women.  Can you imagine sitting in a café having a drink with Dr. Claribel, Etta and Gertrude?

Claribel Cone, Gertrude Stein and Etta Cone sitting at a table in Settignano, Italy. June 26, 1903. The Baltimore Museum of Art: Dr. Claribel and Miss Etta Cone Papers, Archives and Manuscripts Collection, CG.12.

I digress.  But I just can’t help myself sometimes.

Looking at that rock wall along one of the pathways on the estate and at the trees while walking along Figure 8 Trail and then during the hike up to see where Moses is buried, I started thinking of the old children’s saying:  Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never harm me.  That is a lie. It may be interpreted as you can say what you want, but calling me names won’t hurt me. But I think that words can be very harmful and leave lasting scars and regrets. I wish that I had been more careful with my words over the years. And I wish that others would be as well. Every single day I work at watching what comes out of my mouth.  Sometimes I win, sometimes I lose.  But I do try.

On the other hand, putting into words how you feel about someone is a gift.  I received several gifts of letters last week. I have two of them in my purse now. They are from a couple of girlies I taught for three years, from the day they arrived as new 6th graders at my school. I am notoriously known as a tough, strict teacher. Oui, moi!  I tell everyone that I would not have survived 37 years in middle school otherwise.  I do set high standards, give nightly homework assignments, and expect them to practice in class what they are learning (learning a second language is not a spectator sport), but I temper it with care and respect. And fun. And food. To paraphrase the girlies…

From Girlie #1:

On my first day of French in 6th grade, I walked into class wanting to be in Spanish & pronouncing “bonjour” wrong. Now, I am proud to say that I can carry on a meaningful conversation in French and that French has become, by far, one of my favorite classes.  Even though it has been a lot of hard work and practice, taking French with you has taught me about overcoming challenges… I have been doing some thinking. And I have no idea where I would be without French & you as my teacher.  Not only have I learned French, I have been able to grow, bond, and make friendships outside of my normal friend group… So, madame, in conclusion, thank you. I don’t know if you knew how much you have done for me but I wanted to let you know before I left the middle school.

From Girlie #2:

I have come to realize that there are not enough words or phrases (in French or English) to describe and show how much you have influenced me.  French is, to say the least, one of the hardest classes I have had. You made me look forward to learning it though. It will always confuse me how much I loved the hardest class, but your passion for the language rubs off. You made the class seem like a love letter to the language that you just read out loud. I have heard around 540 love letters. Honestly, I’m very excited for high school, but the thought of you not teaching me is one of the only things I can’t let go of… Thank you for showing us all tough love because while in sixth grade I was slightly terrified, it showed us how much you cared about all of us. You care, and I would like to think that most people in my life do but the truth is there are only a handful that do…  This is my first fan letter.

They know that I write thank you notes and fan letters. From a note of appreciation to our computer guru (and my personal garlic dealer) to Pierre Hermé in Paris to thank him for making such delicious macarons. (I’ve yet to meet him, but there is always the next trip.) I feel honored that these two amazing young women took the time to write to me.  (And now that I have copied some of what they wrote here, it will be less traumatic if I misplace the letters, just as Claribel Cone lost a $15,000 check sent to her by one of her brothers by placing it in the pocket of one of her skirts, according to the article in Forbes!)

Today was also a day for wildflowers.  Much to my friend KR’s dismay if she sees this post, I do not know the names of but one or two of them.  Some are even considered weeds, I guess.

The purple rhododendron are my favorite.  I only found a couple of bushes in bloom.  A bit too early yet.

Can you see the face??

And what does this rock, collected for the BFF, look like?

North Carolina, of course!

I made it to Moses’ grave.  He is buried with his wife, Bertha.

The view from his final resting place isn’t shabby.

If you are out driving along the Blue Ridge Parkway, a stop at Moses Cone Memorial Park would be well worth your time.

And last but by no means last… on my way to the cemetery, I walked by a cow pasture. I am overly fond of cows. And I don’t mind the smell of cow patties.

Now, with that in mind (or maybe not), I will leave you with a recipe for something delicious that is sometimes called a Cow Patty. Many thanks to my mother-in-law for sharing this recipe with me 30+ years ago.  I would love to make some right now, but it will have to wait. I am not in my own kitchen.

Chocolate Oatmeal No-Bake Cookies
(recipe from my mother-in-law)

2 c. sugar
1/2 c. milk
1/2 c. butter
3 Tbsp. cocoa
1 tsp. vanilla
1/2 c. peanut butter
3 c. oatmeal

Combine sugar, milk, butter, and cocoa.  Bring to boil and boil for one minute.  Add vanilla and peanut butter.  Stir until peanut butter is melted.  Add oatmeal and stir until it is well-coated.  Drop by tablespoonfuls onto waxed paper and place in refrigerator until cooled. (Lick the bowl just to make clean up easy.)
Makes about 3 dozen.

Bon appétit to all!  Write someone a genuine, heartfelt thank you note.  Heck, even write one to yourself.  You deserve it.