Oh my goodness. I was just given a $350 ticket to a beautiful Park City weekend and a conference led by amazing and strong business women from all over the nation. For free. Out of the blue.
Know why?
People have been praying.
Thank you.
Sub-featured!
Because of Persimmon Floral's fine work (Thanks, Megan Dunford) I was able to sneak in behind Megan in getting what I am terming "sub-featured". The real show stoppers here are Megan's flowers. However, I got credit for the cake and photography (the cake picture on the site is raw; it really wasn't gray in real life, so please excuse ;). Pretty stoked for Megan, and sub-stoked for me! Check out the photography, flowers and cake!
And if you want to see more of Megan's work, please visit Persimmon Floral.
Get off Track
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| And it's just as wild as you think it is. |
Not your typical destination- I know. But I've been captured up in the place ever since I first read Where the Red Fern Grows. They say it's like a third-world country right here in America and "they" might be right. I experienced a little of this on a trip out west as I spontaneously detoured off a main highway in Arkansas. I saw the brown sign for the Ozark National Forest and knew my chance to see the place that haunted my imagination was right then and there (because, honestly, how often are you in Arkansas?). Every possible side road was explored, some of which dead-ended in places where I was afraid I was going to get chased down by a grandma with a shotgun. The houses were built with scraps of tin and plywood and nearly every one had a few kids out front without shoes or shirts. And hard as it is to mention that many were in overalls because you'd think I was taking it too far, think what you will—many were in overalls. These half-naked children would line up along the edge of their dirt road and stare as my car rolled past, kicking up a cloud of dust. It was like going back in time.
One of the side-road detours ended in a village square. I knew it was a village square because the only structures in sight were crowded around the perimeter, several roads lead into it and, most importantly, because it was square. A well in the center seemed to be the congregating point for a few locals who were leaning onto it, jabbering away to each other. Along one side, a row of wooden stores were strung along a raised wooden sidewalk, further strung with wooden rocking chairs. I decided to go into one of the stores, an antique shop, and see what it was all about. Besides antiques.
The man that ran it, "Gramps", was a WWII veteran. Pictures of the war days, among other days, were plastered all over the wall behind the long, rough wood counter. The customers were sparse, a triple-legged dog, a man with one eye (both of whom Gramps knew), and some other chance bypassers who had no interest in his story-telling. I spent the rest of the afternoon in the shop with him as he told me about the war and referenced the photos that related to his memories.
There were a few proud points where he stopped to come back to the present. The first: the war was the only time he had left the area. "Born and raised and where he'd die" is how he told it. No reason to leave when all he needed was right there. The second point of pride (coming from seemingly nowhere and with a vehemence I've rarely experienced since): the locals took the law into their own hands. He adamantly told me that they always had and always would; they didn't need "no" police around there. Have you ever seen old Looney Tunes where two hillbilly familes are engaged in an age-old family feud? I was reminded instantly of that as he was telling me of their law-keeping ways: two cartoon familes in overalls shooting at each other from their shacks. It was a reality there.
I've come to realize that the best part of any trip is listening to the people along the way share their culture and history. You don't need to go to a ritzy first-class resort in the Pacific to get a healthy dose of culture (wait... are you offering?). Head down a side road and discover.
Barbara Kingsolver & Her Mother Hen Eyes (or The Real Reason for Organic)
If you've read Barbara Kingsolver's book Animal, Vegetable, Miracle
you may recall her flavor desciption of the backyard eggs of which she was so proud. The copy I read has long since been returned to the library, so I can not quote, but her description had something to do with being superior to the wimps available at the supermarket (in fact, pretty much everything available from the supermarket faced that label). I had no reason not to believe; being an organic & free-range advocate, it seemed only logical that healthy, happy animals kept free from chemicals and unnatural feed would produce far better tasting eggs, dairy and meat. It appears I was wrong in the case of eggs.
According to the Washington Post article's author, Tamar Haspel, all eggs, even those from happy hens, "...just taste like eggs, and don't let anyone tell you different." This is something for the author to admit as she raises her own laying hens. Tamar, who became curious about any differences between fresh eggs and those from the store after cooking her first backyard egg, came to this conclusion using the most scientific approach available to a mere human- a blind taste test among a panel of friends. Three varying grades of eggs were gathered, cooked, tasted and commented on by the judges. After the tallies were taken, the conclusion was that all three types of eggs (plain storebought, high-end organic, and her backyard beauties) came out exactly even.
I was floored. It appears others who read the parallel post on Tamar's blog were as well. Unable to let the results rest, she went in search of an explanation. Her sleuthing lead her to Auburn University's Pat Curtis, an all-things-chicken connoisseur who ruffled no feathers about the findings. Says Pat, "People's perception of egg flavor is mostly psychological...When you have them actually taste, there's not enough difference to tell."
It appears that Ms. Kingsolver's rapture over her backyard dozen is nothing more than an emotional connection to her hens and hard work. Does this conclusion mean I am throwing the organic eggs out the door? Au contraire. While there were some advantages noted for baking purposes, the most important point of going free-range and organic is as follows:
Being in the business of organic baking, I am bound to a certain code of ethics. Although I do find myself still hoping that there is a noticeable taste difference in the eggs, the larger issue remains. The real value in backyard/urban coops as well as *true* free-range and organic lies in the way the chickens are raised and cared for- which trumps any gains in taste. Animals have the right to live their lives as intended. We have the responsibility to provide chickens with their right to forage, cows to their right to leisurely graze and pigs with their right to dig up roots just as much as we have the responsibility to give Mrs. Sugarlump, the family four-paw, love and care.
P.S. If you know a human Mrs. Sugarlump, my apologies.
Southern Battlefield
Last night I found myself suddenly engaged in a war of words. It started innocently enough but my southerness was unwittingly challenged and, as any proud regionalist knows, such challenges quickly lead to a duel.
This post is about the word artist, Ryan Holdaway.
It all began with a tweet (that's a message sent through Twitter, my fine unconnected friends). Ryan was expressing sorrow that his "all-time favorite baseball player... who had the sweetest swing in the history of baseball" retired last night. (Prize for who guesses that correctly- and it can't be Ryan, cheater.) When I asked him if he wanted me to pass over the box of tissues sitting on the desk in front of me, he smartly replied: You should know that a southern gentleman always carries his own hankie.
This post is about the word artist, Ryan Holdaway.
It all began with a tweet (that's a message sent through Twitter, my fine unconnected friends). Ryan was expressing sorrow that his "all-time favorite baseball player... who had the sweetest swing in the history of baseball" retired last night. (Prize for who guesses that correctly- and it can't be Ryan, cheater.) When I asked him if he wanted me to pass over the box of tissues sitting on the desk in front of me, he smartly replied: You should know that a southern gentleman always carries his own hankie.
I don't know what it was about that tweet but I had a proud moment. That is, until he forgot I was a southerner myself. This is where the story begins.
This is where Ryan decides its time to kick it up a notch:
And then he hits it out of the park with the sweetest of swings:
Keep in mind he had a two hour advantage on me and I haven't put up my white flag (Retreat? Not a Southern girl...) so the smoke hasn't settled in the battlefield. But the point is- I think yall should check out Mr. Ryan Holdaway and his word mastery. He's hard at work in AZ on a new album due out this Fall and will be back in Utah hitting up the stages in September (If you're in AZ, you can snag him at a show in July). Get ready to treat your ears to lyrical genius.
P.S. Are you a proud regionalist? Feeling inspired by this southern brawltasticness? Comment your regional rhyme here (or jump in on twitter @ryan_holdaway @sugaredmagnolia):
