Tag Archives: West Asheville

Witch of the Cumberlands

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When I was a kid, this is the book that made me realize I wanted to write–and that I wanted, someday, to write a book as good as this one.                    

“With the prophesied arrival of three children on Devil’s Mountain a gentle elderly woman, whom the villagers call a witch, unravels the old mystery of a local mine disaster.”

How could anyone resist such a jacket-blurb? And the totally cool illustrations that captured the stories-within-a-story world that author Mary Jo Stephens created–wow!

I think my oldest sister clued me in to the utter wonder of this book, and I used to check it out of our public library (the West Asheville branch on Haywood Road) several times a year. In fact, I got so worried that some other (careless/insensitive) child would check it out and lose it that I finally talked my mother into letting me keep it. (Yes, such was my mania for this book that I compelled my mother to fib to the library for me!)

We said it was lost, paid the library for it, and it’s had a place of honor on my bookshelf ever since.* I occasionally loan it to those who I think will sincerely enjoy it, but I watch the lender like a hawk until the book is safely home again with me.

I don’t know much about the author, and she apparently wrote only one other book (Zoe’s Zodiac), which I never read, for some reason. Hmm…maybe that’s an idea for my reading list?

*I still feel some major guilt about the library lie we told, but it was impossible to get books way back when, with no Amazon.com at your fingertips or Barnes & Noble on every corner. If a book got away from you in those days, you might never see it again…and I just wouldn’t risk it!

Feral Friday: May 13, 2011

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Feral Friday:  my version of the more common “Wordless Wednesday” post in which a thought is illustrated with an image rather than words. (There will be some words, though; I just can’t help myself!)

Big Ol' Turtle Rock

 
Somewhere along Hominy Creek, you can see this big rock sticking up out of the water.
 
When my parents moved from West Asheville to Candler in August, 1971, I was 2-and-a-half. (Don’t bother with the math–it was 40 years ago and yes, now you know my age, too.) There were no car seats for kids in those days, and virtually no seat belts, and we mostly sat in our mom’s laps and leaned out the windows (and mostly all survived, thank goodness).
 
When we passed this stretch of the creek, my mom told me to look for “that big old turtle rock” that looked like a giant tortoise lumbering upstream. (It already had moss on it then, but the grass and weeds are a fairly new development in the last 15 or so years.) (The rusty oil drum hung up in the rocks nearby is an even newer development, unfortunately.)
 
When the creek floods, the turtle will be submerged for a few days, but he always comes back, headed upstream against the current. No matter where I go, or for how long, I check on the turtle when I come home.
 
Thanks, Mom, for having imagination enough to make the world a more interesting place for all of us!
 

I-Scream Truck

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As I drove down a back road in western Buncombe County today, I heard a strange sound, sort of like a giant music box, being slowly…wound…down…one…note…at…a…time. It was sad, wheezy, mechanical music, and totally out of place in such a rural setting.

I immediately spotted the source: a pale green panel van with multicolored dots painted on the sides. Of course! An ice cream truck, blaring its siren song to bring children out of the woodwork, dollars clutched in sweaty summertime fists, craning their necks for a glimpse of the frozen treats in store for them.

Terrifying "Mr. Softee" character & ice cream truck from Florida. Run away little children--run away!

Did I mention that ice cream trucks give me the creeps? Like clowns, they exist for the amusement of children–supposedly–but I find them more jarring than joyful. A truck with no windows that lumbers around town, promising sweets to children? More like a mobile version of  Hansel & Gretel,  if you ask me. Remember the truly terrifying Kid-Catcher from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang? He’s the sort of character you expect to see driving an ice cream truck–and he’d probably be wearing a clown suit. Horrors!

Robert Hellmann as "Kid-Catcher;" surely one of the most terrifying characters of all time--sniffing out children and taking them away in his cart. Eek!

I think I have this Stephen King-induced-terror of ice cream trucks because such trucks are exactly what the monsters (human or otherwise) that people his stories would drive. He probably didn’t write a story about a haunted ice cream truck simply because it would have been too obvious–a King-cliche, so to speak. (King, of course, did indulge in a bloodthirsty clown in It, which is a much scarier book than it is a movie.)

Maybe ice cream trucks have this effect on me because I didn’t grow up with them. My house was way up a secondary road (probably a tertiary road, truth be known) and I can remember the Bookmobile passing by on occasion, but no ice cream trucks. I knew about them, had even seen one in West Asheville once, but it was not part of my childhood. And why is their music always wheezy and clangy? Why does it have a Pied Piper ”come along children; follow me over this cliff” sort of feel to it? Like an organ grinder, grinning as he cranks the handle of some unspeakable hurdy-gurdy to ensnare unwary children and draw them closer to the clever hands of what appears, at first glance, to be nothing more than a tame monkey…

See what I mean? Creepy!

I spent a semester at UTEP (that’s the University of Texas at El Paso–Go, Miners!) many years ago, and loved to go to Gussie’s Tamales across town from the campus (2200 N. Piedras Street). Gussie’s is a locavore’s dream: hand-made tamales in a variety of flavors, and so good you could practically roll in them. You place your order at the counter, pay very little, and in return, receive steaming packets of corn husks wrapped around masa that’s been filled with a variety of fabulous ingredients (my favorite was the green chicken).

Four of us made a Gussie’s run one particular evening and took our tamales to a nearby park so we could sit outside and enjoy the warm weather. We were just digging in to our Gussie’s haul when I heard something odd: a few wheezy notes that sounded like a merry-go-round on the skids. There were no other people around, and we were down in the park, fairly far from the main road. I heard it again, a little closer: DUM…dee…DUM…dee…wheeze…dee…dee. Getting closer. The others heard it, too.

Then we saw it: a white panel van, no windows, lurching toward us, bleating its demented little ice cream song, one labored note at a time. We looked at each other, then back at the truck, watching it weave closer, coming toward us through the empty, twilit park, tweedling its increasingly terrifying tune.

That was it for me. ”I don’t know about y’all, but I want to get away from that thing,” I said, beginning to fold the corn husk back around my half-eaten tamal*. The others looked at me, looked at the truck–and began a wild scramble for the car. Doors slammed, I gunned the engine, and we were gone in a squeal of protesting tires. The park road formed a loop, thank goodness, so we bolted out the other direction instead of confronting what had suddenly become the “I-Scream Truck.”**

We roared around a couple of curves and I slowed down to look back. The truck was still there, just a pale blur in the growing dark, but the music was still audible: DUM…dee…DUM…dee…wheeze…dee…dee. My passengers shrieked “go!” and we tore out of the park and headed back to the comparatively well-lit security of our dorm. The tamales were still good when we ate them, but our enthusiasm for them–and certainly for ice cream–was diminished for quite some time.

* Yes, tamal is the singular form of tamales (plural). There is no such thing as a “tamale,” but everyone knows what you mean, so don’t worry about it. I’m officially a word-nerd…in two languages!

** Absolutely no offense is intended to what I’m sure are the very nice drivers of ice cream trucks and the very nice people who dress up as clowns or work as organ grinders. I’m sure there are children (and adults) who are not frightened by you–or your sinister simian henchmen–in any way!

Weird trivia: The UTEP mascot is a burly, bearded miner known as “Paydirt Pete.”  He was much scarier in his earlier incarnations, like this one:

"Paydirt Pete" back in my day...wonder what he's planning to do with that pick-axe?

Fried Pickles

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Some people freak out at the thought of fried pickles–they just can’t imagine how the combination of the those two tastes could possibly work. For me, it’s like the old Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups slogan: Two Great Tastes That Taste Great Together!

I admit to not having had fried pickles until about 2004. There used to be a Cajun-style restaurant called Thibodeaux Kitchen on Biltmore Avenue, just a few doors up from the Fine Arts Cinema, and it was the first place I ever had the pleasure of pickles frite.

Sidebar: This location is what I think of as a “hard luck location”, meaning it’s had too many businesses come and go in too short an amount of time. For whatever reason, nothing can stick there too long.

I think it started as The Golden Horn, which was a mix of Mediterranean/Moroccan/Greek–very good! (I still have fond memories of the Moroccan Chicken with apricot and pistachio cous-cous.)

The Golden Horn departed unexpectedly and was replaced by some restaurant with Rooster in the title, I think, but I never had time/inclination to eat there before it was gone. Then it became Thibodeaux Kitchen, which served New Orleans (N’awlins)-style cuisine and was given to lots of shiny Mardi Gras beads draped over every surface. I went there with a former beau and his friends just prior to a Robert Earl Keen show at The Orange Peel, and that entire bizarre evening deserves another whole sidebar all to itself. Maybe another time.

Thibodeaux’s Kitchen gave way to ED Boudreaux Bayou Bar-B-Que, which has good food and allows you to choose your own sauce (out of a wide variety of choices). They seem to be having more luck than previous occupants, so good for them. I don’t think, however, that they serve fried pickles.

So back to the now-defunct Thibodeaux’s Kitchen and fried pickles: I love most kinds of pickles and most types of pickled things (maybe not pig’s feet, unless I was personally pickled enough to try them!), so I thought fried pickles sounded okay. (Sometimes gastronomy and intuition combine to make our palates even more receptive, perhaps?)

The pickles were ordered and arrived…heavily breaded and fried brown discs that completely disguised their internal character (as a hefty dose of battered-and-fried tends to do). They were smoking hot, so I bit in cautiously–and was instantly hooked! Something about being battered and fried changed the humble pickle chip into a nibble-worthy addiction. Hallelujah–another fried food to on which to fixate (but that’s life in the South for you)!

Fast forward to St. Patrick’s Day 2007–a blue-cold day of snapping winds and huddling into coat collars–and an evening get-together with a group of friends at Burgermeisters  at 697 Haywood Road in West Asheville. I hadn’t been there before but had heard the burgers were definitely worthy of consideration, and suprise–there were fried pickles on the menu!

I talked my friends into trying them, and Burgermeister does it up right with a huge basket of freshly-fried dill pickle slices served with some sort of ranch-style sauce for dipping (I’m not a fan of ranch dressing/dip/flavor, but the others assured me it was really good, so I’m willing to take their word for it). The burgers were top notch, as well, but I could have eaten the whole basket of fried pickles and gone back for more!

Several months ago, I went to  Cinebarre to see “Sweeney Todd”. If you haven’t tried Cinebarre, it’s a nice mix of theater seating and casual dining. You can order before or during the movie, the staff is really good at serving without disrupting your viewing, and the appetizer menu includes fried pickles! Cinebarre makes pickle magic a little differently–they use pickle spears instead of chips.  Tastes good, but I believe I prefer the higher breading-to-pickle ratio of the traditional pickle chip. Here’s another factor: the opening scenes of “Sweeney Todd” featuring Mrs. Lovett’s dirty, roach-infested kitchen and the creation of her truly repulsive meat pies (forget the later ones made from Todd’s victims!) at the beginning were enough to make my stomach feel curiously resistant to the allure of too many fried pickle spears…

My next fried pickle destination is The Fiddlin’ Pig on Tunnel Road. It’s another hard-luck location, unfortunately, so I hope it stays in business long enough for me to indulge!*

*May 2011 update:  The Fiddlin’ Pig closed a few months ago and nothing else has taken over its hard-luck location…

Blinky Pig

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Posting “Cornbread” made me hungry, so here’s a follow-up:

There are right many barbecue restaurants in this area. 12 Bones is probably one of the top spots, and deservedly so. The food is good, the location groovy, and the parking/length of time waiting in line for lunch after parking a hike away on the river bank, is terrible–must mean they’re doing something right!

But that’s not my topic–I’m thinking Blinky Pig today. It’s real name is Barbecue Inn, and it’s been a fixture in West Asheville my whole life (it was there long before I was). There used to be a covered wagon out front—sort of a compact Conestoga that was too small for the whole family, but perfect for a starter-wagon—to clue you in that this was a barbecue joint. Best of all, the Barbecue Inn sign featured a funky red pig face that used to be outlined in blinking bulbs–hence the nickname “Blinky Pig”, which is how we identify it in my office. “What’s for lunch?” “Hmm…I was thinking maybe Blinky Pig. You?”

The interior is just as pointedly porcine as the nickname suggests; every surface is covered with a pig collectable of some variety. There are plastic pigs, pine pigs, porcelain pigs, piggy banks–you name it, if it’s pig-related, it’s in there somewhere. My office mates and I usually end up sitting under a pig-themed something  that looks like a wall-mounted paper towel holder…with a series of what might be pig-shaped napkin rings hanging from it. We’ve never asked the staff what it really is; we’re just happy to eat next to it.

Speaking of eating, we don’t usually order barbecue, even though it’s really good. It’s hard to get past the Brunswick stew, which is warm and comforting and served with slaw and hush puppies. The “Little Squeal” is another favorite: Blinky Pig pit-cooked barbecue on a hotdog bun (smaller than the standard whopping portion of chopped pork on a bun or plate; perfect for ladies who lunch).

I think I’ll save everything else I could write about Blinky Pig for another post–I haven’t even covered Piggy Petals and the teeny little golf pencils you use to mark your order form–but I’m too hungry to do it justice. Gotta’ get me some Blinky Pig (1341 Patton Avenue) soon!