Gomming & Yowing

All about eating and talking and life in the South and anything else that strikes my fancy…

Archive for the tag “Biltmore”

20 Nov 2011

Eat Write Retreat

Sometimes you have to retreat in order to advance. Counter-intuitive? Not necessarily–especially when the retreat is a well-organized time apart from the daily grind in order to focus on something of importance.

Last weekend, I had a chance to join Eat Write Retreat in their first EWR: Destination Learning series, which incorporated “skill-building and networking into a fascinating exploration of a unique, food-focused community.” The destination just happened to be Asheville, and the company for which I work just happened to be one of the event sponsors, so I got to hang out with some very interesting folks who make a living through writing and blogging about food.

Fantastic foodies Robyn Webb and Casey Benedict developed the program “as a way to strengthen connections in the food blogging community through a shared exploration of cooking, writing and photography. Robyn and Casey have worked tirelessly to create an intensive, hands-on learning weekend, full of opportunity, friendship and fun at a great value.” (That’s how the EWR website describes it, and I’d definitely agree!)

As as overview, we accomplished the following in our short Asheville weekend:

  1. Friday: wine tasting and dinner at Biltmore.
  2. Saturday: breakfast at Early Girl Eatery; tour of Hickory Nut Gap Farm (and their very cool farmhouse, with its long history!); a beer-tasting lunch at The Market Place Restaurant with special guest Oscar Wong of Highland Brewing Company; a chocolate-tasting and lesson in cacao production from French Broad Chocolates; a wine and local cheese tasting with Sante Wine Bar; and last–but far from least–dinner at Carmel’s with wines by Shelton Vineyards and desserts courtesy of True Confections.
  3. Sunday: a light breakfast at True Confections; a tour of Blue Ridge Food Ventures (including a meeting with a filmmaker who’s working with local farms); and finally, a tapas lunch at Cúrate.

I believe a truly good time was had by all, even if we were dragging a bit by the end of the weekend. Though some menus were small/tasting-style, it was a LOT of food (and drink!) to consume in less than 48 hours.

Next time, I’ll dig deeper–with my fork–into the specifics of each element of the retreat. Be sure to read when you’re hungry!

Posted in Food and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a Comment
12 Aug 2011
4 Comments

Feral Friday: Landescaping

Yes, I meant to put that ‘e’ in the middle of ‘landscaping’ to make a new word: landescaping. I define it as the art of losing yourself in a gardening project, or escaping into the comfort of working with plants, even if you have a crispy brown thumb rather than a green one.

The fearsome 'catgoyle' guarding my little garden

My paternal grandfather had as green a thumb as it’s possible to have–he could look at weeds and they’d fly out of his garden, or he’d jerk up a plant by its head and stuff it in the ground somewhere else and it would grow better than one that had been carefully transplanted, fertilized, and mulched. He once said he figured he’d hoed every cornfield in Western North Carolina, and he was probably right!

Anyway, he passed a good portion of his skills to my father, and they’ve trickled down in part to my generation, although none of us ever get the results ‘Daddy Paul’ got from his gardening or plantings.

I’ve been living in my little house for 16 years now (have mercy–how did that happen?) and I still have very little landscaping other than what the woods that surround the place provide. It’s depressing to still see red clay showing from when the lot was graded back in 1974–I’ve amended no soil, and my few attempts to have an herb or flower garden have mostly been mowed down by my over-zealous lawn-boy (i.e. my dad).

This year, for some reason, I’ve made a slightly more organized attempt to grow a few things and have chosen containers as my starting point rather than in-ground beds. I started with two plants–a lavender and a rosemary–in a dish and have progressed to hen-and-chicks, sedum, golden oregano, creeping white thyme, and a purple ground cover (the name escapes me at the moment) against a backdrop of miniature stripey grass (zebra grass, I believe it is) just like the kind outside the Universal Joint in West Asheville. I bought most of the plants from A Gardeners Place located at Biltmore–they have a great selection of everything you need to make your garden pretty!

Here’s are the results of my impromptu landescaping efforts from earlier today:

My container gardens

And yes, this project did provide a relaxing journey into the landescape of my mind, which is always a welcome place to be…

Posted in Gardening and tagged , , , , , , , ,
09 Aug 2008
1 Comment

The Thrill Is NOT Gone…

Generally speaking, if you’re 82 years old, have diabetes, and bad knees, you’re probably not accepting tour dates and creating play lists for your next show.

Unless you’re B.B. King, that is. Just caught his act at Biltmore this evening, and though his knees now keep him seated during his performances, other than that, I think he has more energy than I do at less than half his age!

King and long-time companion Lucille* sound as fine as ever.  She never leaves his side, and he’s got a hand on her even when he’s not asking her to speak to the audience. Together, they’ve got the best seat in the house and they keep the audience in thrall: pulling us all the way down to the bottom of the Mississippi Delta blues, then sending us spiraling skyward as the saints go marching in.

He’s funny and graceful and grateful all at the same time, and well aware that he’s been bringing on the blues for more than 60 years. King is quite the storyteller, often changing the tempo of the show to include bits and pieces of his lifetime. He spins his stories against a blues backdrop that walks along in time with his words and the occasional murmured comment from Lucille. (I suppose you could say she’s “fretful” when he’s not paying her enough attention.)

It was a capacity crowd tonight, and I think everyone admired B.B. King’s stamina as much as his talent. He may be an octagenarian, but he’s also a living legend, and he makes both look easy. And even though I think Lucille is a good bit younger than he is, King is still keeping her–and his fans–more than satisfied.

*Lucille is B.B. King’s guitar, and he’s been faithful to her throughout a significant portion of his career.

Posted in Asheville, Biltmore and tagged , , , ,
04 Aug 2008

Calls of Nature

Somewhere in the middle of the summer, there’s a particular insect that tunes up, right in the hottest part of the day. We call it “the hot bug,” because you only hear it in the afternoons on days that are mid-80′s and above. It sounds industrial, like a fan or a saw running in the distance. You never really hear it in May or June; not hot enough for long enough. By the time July rolls around, though: watch out. The hot bug is trilling and drilling in earnest.

Around the same time, there will be a particularly hot, still night, and you’ll realize you hear what we call “the school bug.” It starts quietly, with just one or two of them audible in the distance. It’s a two-note call. Sort of a push-me-pull-you call, with the first note getting more emphasis. RASP-rasp, RASP-rasp; something like that. And because it starts with only a couple of school bugs, it’s sort of a lonely sound, like whatever kind of bug is out there is all by itself, RASP-rasping for company. Hoping another of its kind will answer its two-note tune that it’s probably creating by rubbing its hairy hind-legs together. (Eek!)

By the end of the week, it sounds as if an international orchestra of RASP-rasping school bugs is tuning up outside your window. The din is deafening if you’re not used to it; I’ve had urban-dwelling friends visiting and they ended up shutting their windows rather than trying to sleep through it. RASP-rasp, like a heavy snorer on the other side of the bed. RASP-rasp, like someone clawing their way through a hickory knot with a dull saw. RASP-rasp: a maddening cacophony to those who don’t live in the country. RASP-rasp: a familiar sound to those of us who grew up sleeping next to open windows, with nothing but the screen between you and the hairy-legged raspers out there in the dark.

We call them “school bugs” because once you hear them, it means that it’s getting close to time for kids to go back to school. The summer, though not yet over, is in decline. The school bugs are a signal that cooler weather is coming: once they tune up, it’s a specific length of time until the first frost of fall.* And when you’re waiting on the bus in those first early mornings of the new school year–with your back-to-school blue jeans feeling strangely stiff and formal after months of bare-legged summer, and the weight of nine months of schoolwork clinging to your backpack like a bad monkey–the school bugs are still RASP-rasping out there in the not-quite-dark. RASP-rasp: peanut butter and jelly sandwich in a brown paper bag. RASP-rasp: new sneakers a half size too big so you don’t outgrow them before November. RASP-rasp: a big yellow schoolbus braking to a halt with a tired gasp of airbrakes before swallowing up an assortment of kids at the mouth of each dirt road bus stop in the county.

Years ago, I saw a benefit concert at Biltmore. Judy Collins was the headliner, and she looked every inch the star in fluttering white clothes and flowing white hair, her Suite: Judy Blue Eyes as remarkable as ever. She paused several times during the show to introduce her musicians or to comment on the evening. At one point, she asked the audience-at-large, “what kind of insect is it that we can hear so plainly?” Before the words “school bug” could much more than go through my head, a man in the crowd shouted out “school bugs!” I couldn’t believe my ears–outside of my family and the en famille shorthand-sort-of-language we speak when we’re together, I’d never heard anybody call the RASP-raspers school bugs; never dreamed anyone else made that particular connection.

I’m sure Judy Collins gave a fabulous show that night, but I don’t remember most of it: I was too distracted by the sound of the school bugs and being grateful that the school bell no longer tolled for me.

*I’ve been told recently that the school bugs also predict high temperatures for the following day. Fair enough–it usually is hot the next day by the time you get to July and August–but for me, they’re always about school, as clear and obvious as if you’d flashed a big “S” signal up in the sky.

Posted in Biltmore, memories, summer, weather and tagged , , , , , , , , , | Leave a Comment
01 Aug 2008

Keep It Comin', Love!

Don’t stop it now, don’t stop it, no…

Yes, I’m going to Biltmore Saturday evening to see KC & The Sunshine Band. As an added bonus, The Village People are opening for them. I’ve never seen either group in person, even though they’ve been performing for more than 30 years.

The estate is a great place to see concerts: you park, catch a shuttle up to the house, and enjoy an open-air concert with 3,000 or so of your closest friends, instead of 20,000 and more in some of the bigger stadium shows. I saw Simon & Garfunkel at Georgia Tech Stadium in 1983, and one of the radio announcers suggested there were approximately 60,000 fans there that night. It was definitely a lot of people–too many for comfort–and quite a number of them hopped up on whatever kind of nostalgia they remembered from S&G’s “salad days” in the 60′s and 70′s.

But I digress. The first time I heard Harry Wayne Casey (a.k.a. “KC”) singing his repetitive-but-infectious lyrics, I was hooked. Completely in love with the flashy disco-ness of it all: the funky horns, sparkly costumes, happy people. Keep It Comin’, Love; I’m Your Boogie Man; Shake Your Booty; Boogie Shoes–it doesn’t get much better than that!

My fourth grade teacher had us do creative writing once a week–we could write a page or so about anything, and it didn’t have to be related to spelling or social studies or whatever we were learning at the moment. (Bless you, Sandra Albarty, in your turquoise-colored corduroy gaucho suit; you were a great inspiration to me!) I remember one particular triumph of creativity in which I wrote about singing (and dancing!) on stage with KC & The Sunshine Band at the Carowinds Paladium (the pinnacle of coolness–to perform in an amusement park). He would wear purple, I would wear pink; we would be completely happy together.  In later years, I’ve often wondered what Ms. Albarty made of that particular piece of painfully purple prose…

As for The Village People, I was introduced to them at my sister’s class play the year I was in 5th grade and she was in 8th. Her class performed a timeless tale of Santa’s stubborn refusal to keep Christmas because he was tired and didn’t think anybody cared. My sister–in her role as Santa’s head elf–had to encourage him to see the good in the world. Grumpy old Santa allowed himself to be transported to Studio 54 via the rest of the class lip-synching to Chic’s Le Freak. After Santa got his mind wrapped around that experience, the group went on to a rousing version of YMCA to help cheer the jolly old fellow a little more.

My mother and I were watching this spectacle from the darkened seats in the gymnatorium (honestly–I’m not making this up–the structure multi-tasked as both our elementary school gym and auditorium). She leaned over and whispered, “I bet I know what the name of that song is.”

So, although I’m looking forward to both groups tomorrow night, there’s a little part of me that feels about 10 years old when I think of them. I doubt that KC will ask me to join him on stage, and I don’t think The Village People want me to crash their room at the aforementioned YMCA, but there’s *something* about the music you knew and loved when you were a kid that makes you want to sing it out loud, disco or otherwise.

Here’s to you, Harry Wayne Casey, with your three names like a serial killer or a presidential assassin. And here’s to you, Policeman, Construction Guy, Biker Dude, Cowboy, and Indian Chief–still rocking the house (and America’s largest house, at that!) after all these years!

Posted in Asheville, Biltmore, disco, memories and tagged , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a Comment
31 May 2008
1 Comment

One Post Leads To Another…

My last post was all about Pedro, the miniature donkey from Marion.

Puts me in mind of another donkey: Gumdrop, the guard donkey.

Gumdrop is a regular-sized donkey, not a miniature like Pedro. She’s a working donkey, and has a full-time job guarding sheep. Gumdrop lives and works at Biltmore, and she spends all her time grazing pseudo-peacefully in the pasture with her flock. I say pseudo-peacefully, because Gumdrop has a secret: she’s an undercover donkey-ninja among the sheep.

The Biltmore sheep occupy a quiet hillside pasture on the estate. They move around some, creating the quintessentially pastoral “sheep-dotted-landscape” that you might expect to see on a farm. If you glance at the pasture, you just see sheep. Look more carefully, though, and you’ll see that “one of these things is not like the others” (remember the Sesame Street song that helped generations of kids differentiate between similar things?). One of these things is Gumdrop the guard donkey, efficiently cropping grass, apparently unconcerned with the world around her. Mess with her sheep, however, and it’s Gumdrop en garde!

Unbeknownst to me, donkeys have a reputation as reliable pasture guardians. I knew they were smart and stubborn, but I had no idea they could be trained or encouraged to be watchdogs (watchdonkeys?). Gumdrop keeps a constant watch on her sheep and her pasture; whether friend or foe, nothing goes there without her approval. Over the years, Gumdrop has protected the flock from a number of dogs and coyotes with less than honorable intentions toward her wooly constituency.

Hark! Who goes there? With Gumdrop on the job, not nobody, not no-how. Gumdrop also has a sister in the rent-a-crop business; her name is Jelly Bean. Between the two of them, if you can’t stand the hoof, stay out of the pasture.

Posted in Asheville, Biltmore, donkeys, sheep and tagged , , , , ,

Post Navigation

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 1,601 other followers

%d bloggers like this: