Issue 5
Food
Any nutritious substance that people or animals eat, drink, or think about in order to maintain life and growth.
From the Editor: I was raised a vegan. My mother made all of our food. She made cashew milk and soy cheese. All of our bread was not only handmade but we would go buy the wheat and then take it to the stone grinder to get it ground into flour. I didn't know how rare this was growing up in the South. But it helped form a unique relationship with food. Food in my mom's kitchen could cure anything. There was always something from the earth that would cure your ailment or prevent it. Everything you put in your mouth has purpose and intention.
If you were getting sick you had extra garlic added to your dinner. If you had an ear ache you got a drop of onion juice in your ear. Onion, lemon, ginger, and honey would cure pink-eye, and pumpkin seeds and grapefruit would cure a case of parasites.
There wasn't a food that could not cure anything. She even had a diet for people with cancer. Some people think vegetarians are healthy, but I am here to say most of them are not. It's the processed food that will kill you. I still don't eat meat, not because I am against it; I just never had a good reason to start eating it. But I do like cheese and farm-fresh eggs. Food has been the center of most of our family gatherings. When we travel we sit eating a meal and plan out where and what the next meal will be and will go out of our way for a tasty treat. Destination restaurants are always on our list. As an endurance athlete, I see food not only as fuel for the things I love to do but as something I have bonded over with others.
I have four children, and they are all fond of food except one son. He sees eating as a nuisance. If he didn't have to stop and eat he would be completely content. He sees it as a burden and a waste of time. Maybe because he was born into a family of foodies.
Foodies? I think I heard that term for the first time at a Southern Foodways Alliance meeting. But it hit home that I was one of them. I wasn't sure it was a good thing, but I had to admit the shoe fit.
Food feeds our bodies and our minds. In this issue of theStudio we explore food for thought, some food for the eyes, and all kinds of food that can be consumed, from psychedelics to food addictions.
FULL SEED AHEAD
For Seed Savers Exchange, a rich crop history is in the bank
Text by Paul Underwood + Photos from Seed Savers Exchange
"The seed is a household object but at the same time it is a revolutionary symbol."
— Ai Weiwei
To toil in a garden or among the crops is to surrender to a power higher than one’s own. Not necessarily in a religious or mystical sense — though plenty of Bibles are no doubt stained by green thumbs — but in a most literal one. One can plant, water, position a raised bed or a patch for optimal sunlight, but the remainder of the work is done in large part by forces one cannot control: Rain, freezes, and the like. Moreover, the soil itself is conditioned by those very same forces from long ago, which determine what kind of plants can grow there and when. Finally, to raise a plant — whether a solitary tomato vine in a pot on your fire escape, a lemon tree in your backyard, or acres upon acres of corn or soybeans — is to continue the work of the generations of planters and farmers and gardeners who came before, who tended the flora that begat the seeds you hold in your very hands.
Some of that happens by happy accident, but around 50 years ago, a couple in Decorah, Iowa, realized that, whether by accidents of the unhappy variety, or through the ill intentions of those motivated more by financial profit than the ecological or spiritual variety, American biodiversity was being threatened. After all, during the past 100 years, nearly 75 percent of the world’s edible plant varieties have been lost, a serious blow to our global food system. In that all-American spirit of doing something about it, Kent and Diane Whealy founded Seed Savers Exchange in 1975, a non-profit devoted to restoring American biodiversity through the preservation and exchange of seeds, including heirloom and open-pollinated.
Today, the organization has passed from its founders to a new generation, led by executive director Mike Bollinger. It has expanded to include an 890-acre organic farm (which is open to the public for hiking, fishing, and browsing the on-site shop), the seed catalog (which raises money for the organization), an education program, and the seed exchange itself. Last year’s had 15,631 unique varieties listed by 342 gardeners. As you’d probably guess, the exchange mostly transpires online, though there is an annual printed yearbook, and some of the original listers from the mid-’70s are still involved. “This came out of a backyard,” Bollinger says. “And varieties that had been stewarded within families for generations.”
That’s because the story of Seed Savers goes back even further — to 1884, when the grandfather of founder Diane Whealy brought German Pink Tomato seeds and Morning Glory seeds from Bavaria to America. As Bollinger points out, human migration often coincides with plant migration, because families facing an uncertain future want the security and dependability of familiar foods. The grandfather passed away in 1974, the same year Kent and Diane wrote to back-to-the-land magazines, including Mother Earth News and Landward Ho, and found others who were saving seeds, according to a timeline from the organization.
The next year brought the first newsletter: a six-page publication, sent to 29 people who had responded to notices from the aforementioned magazines. That same year, the Whealy family purchased land near Princeton, Missouri, for a homestead. (They settled in Iowa nearly a decade later.) By 1979, they officially changed the name to Seed Savers Exchange — it had been called True Seed Exchange — and by 1981, it was a registered non-profit, and Kent joined full-time, while the newsletter included a request for seeds to form the beginnings of the seed bank itself. Today, the bank has more than 20,000 varieties of seeds. Caring for them remains an important part of the group’s work, which is supported by 65 employees and roughly 8,000 members.
By 1986, the organization was making its first land purchase, 57 acres on the Heritage Farm site, still in use today.
Of course, just as a farmer’s work is never done, neither is that of Seed Savers Exchange. Next year brings plans for celebrating the 50th anniversary, including a dinner at the farm itself. The exchange — not even a seedling back in 1974 — is in the middle of a significant renovation, intended to shepherd the organization through the 21st century and beyond. And in the culture at large, as Bollinger notes, there is a lot of energy around community gardens and thinking locally, not globally — he cites a florist friend who once sold flowers grown on another continent, whose customers now want something grown nearby. “That's the way to get the most nutritious and freshest food is in your backyard,” he adds. “And you can do it in the community and you can make a lot of connections there. There is a tremendous amount of energy and creativity and innovation and a real sense of urgency happening right now.”
It’s a reminder that, even if the world can sometimes seem like it’s constantly literally on fire, there is wisdom in planting. As Lady Bird Johnson famously said, where wildflowers grow, there is hope.
KODACHROME GARDENS
Text by Adam Rausch + Photographs by Robert Rausch
“Kodachrome—They give us those nice bright colors, they give us the greens of summer.” Paul Simon recorded those lyrics in the 1970s, right here in our neck of the woods known as the Shoals, and fifty years later, Kodachrome is still giving us the greens of summer.
Over the past 38 years, Community Supported Agriculture (CSA) has planted roots in almost every region in the US. Emerging in 1986, Indian Line Farm in Massachusetts and Temple-Wilton Community Farm in New Hampshire became the first CSAs in the New World and are still in operation today. Originally starting in Japanese and Chilean cultures in the 1970s, CSA in America closely resembles the biodynamic agriculture traditions in Europe, influenced by an Austrian philosopher, Rudolf Steiner. It wasn’t until 2021 that Community Supported Agriculture came to The Shoals under the name, Kodachrome Gardens.
This community garden started when Matt Golley showed his friends, Adam and Natalie Morrow, an empty plot of earth near the heart of downtown Florence. Amid the heat of an Alabama August, in a previously locked-down society, these three friends had long awaited a return to the soil of their community.
“I have always spent a lot of time outdoors. It was a big part of my childhood… My grandfather always kept a garden, and I’m very lucky to still be able to talk about it with him. We discussed his four tomato plants yesterday,” says Adam Morrow on his connection to the natural world, and how his connection to the soil has kept him closer to the ones he loves.
Though Adam’s roots are deeply planted in his music, (“I see myself first and foremost as an artist and musician,”) he finds balance to his creativity by getting his hands dirty. “While I love traveling and playing, doing manual labor outdoors became such a nice balance to that.” Pursuing a creative field, like finding shapes in the clouds, is abstract and dauntingly objective, but as Adam puts it, “It's very tangible to plant something and watch it grow,” and to know the job is done when you can share the taste of accomplishment with your community. Though it’s taken a few seasons of labor, Kodachrome now delivers produce to places like Odette, Rivertown, and Haven Health Bus.
You, like me, might wonder how you can get a taste of this sprouting community. For farm-to-table produce, Kodachrome offers a farmstand: open every Saturday, 9-11AM. Adam says, “You can just come to the garden, and we'll fill up a bag, or preorder on our website and we'll have one waiting. It's all cut that morning, so again, as fresh as it gets, and we do a pay what you want model with suggested prices if you walk up.” Or you might want to get your hands dirty, “We will occasionally host big volunteer days to build new beds or do other large-scale projects and have done workshops about our no-till approach in the past.”
Kodachrome’s resourceful “no-till” system facilitates more eco-friendly practices, as it relies heavily on compost, which redistributes some of the waste in the community. “Food and kitchen scraps come from the community, it goes into our compost bays, and then to our beds once it's finished cooking. The compost is the growing medium and the fertilizer.” Kodachrome’s model of recycling nutrient-waste back into the soil through compost is attractive to those interested in reducing landfill waste, and their no-till system has attracted others to change the way they garden.
When Lauren and Hunter Rodgers made the move from San Francisco to Florence in 2020, the couple was eager at the prospect of cultivating their own garden. They both grew up with a familiarity of backyard gardens, as many native southerners experience gardening through family. Upon building their first raised bed, the Rodgers came across the Kodachrome Gardens Instagram account, where they found a better connection to the earth and their community.
As Lauren says, “We were both intrigued by a community- focused market garden and were excited to learn more about what they were growing and how they were doing it,” and the couple attended a volunteer day in May 2022 where they met Adam, Natalie, and Matt. Learning the no-till gardening concept enhanced Lauren and Hunter’s own gardening practices; “Their method of using cardboard and compost was easier and more affordable than constructing raised beds using lumber or renting a tiller. Hunter was quick to expand our backyard garden that summer using the same methods as Kodachrome.” The couple has had a relationship with Kodachrome for two years now and has felt this relationship invaluable to their sense of community, “It's been incredible to see the garden’s growth over the past two years and knowing that we’ve had a role in feeding Florence. Kodachrome has connected us with so many people in the Shoals area—my sense of community wouldn’t be the same without it.”
Community gardens play a crucial role in promoting food sovereignty, with an emphasis on seasonal eating and environmental sustainability. Following Kodachrome Gardens on Instagram is a great wait to keep up, and if you want to help this community project grow, donations are accepted on Kodachrome Gardens' website. All donations will go towards essential garden infrastructure, staff labor, an on-site kitchen buildout, and developing education-based initiatives.
BALANCING ACT
How Blackberry Farm and Mountain blends food, wellness, and luxury
Text by Paul L. Underwood + Photographs from Blackberry Farm
The story of Blackberry Farm hardly requires retelling. But on the off-chance you’re unfamiliar, here it is in broad strokes. In the late ‘30s, a woman with the improbable name of Florida Lasier snagged her silk stockings in a thicket of blackberry bushes in Walland, Tennessee. Having already been entranced by the area, she and her husband, Dave, bought the land and dubbed it Blackberry Farm. By 1976, the Beall family had acquired the farm and surrounding lands, opening it up to visitors, and eventually passing it to their son, Sam, who in the 2000s helped put the 4,200-acre property on the international luxury map.
After his unfortunate passing in February 2016, his wife, Mary Celeste Beall, continued the mission, even expanding it to include the wellness-focused Blackberry Mountain in 2019. It remains an “If you know you know” sort of spot, listed by Time as one of the world’s greatest places, and recently chosen by Food and Wine as the top U.S. hotel for, well, food and wine. Nearly a century after its founding, Blackberry Farm continues to evolve and expand. We recently spoke with two key players to learn just what has changed, and what hasn’t, and what the future might have in store.
Up first, the recently minted executive chef — one of four on the property — Trevor Iaconis, who started as an intern and is now running The Dogwood, the site’s restaurant focused on what they call “foothill cuisine.” When he dropped out of the Culinary Institute of America to stay on at Blackberry, the only stipulation was that he had to stay on for a year. “And that was almost 13 years ago,” he says now.
To hear Iaconis rhapsodize about sourcing radishes or ramps at Blackberry’s gardens is to find yourself salivating at the thought of what he’ll cook up with them, and to be a little disappointed to remember your next meal will not, in fact, be prepared by him and his kitchen. He can wax on at length about heirloom tomatoes, the Mr. Stripeys and Cherokee Purples you can find in those gardens, and the local master gardener who will take out his knife and slice them up for guests. It is entrancing.
But one thing Iaconis has on his plate, so to speak, at his new gig is introducing house-made pasta dishes (with hand-rolled noodles, naturally), along with more seafood, to the ever-evolving menu. “Just really bright flavors and a real focus on lightness and wellness,” he says. “One of the things that we do really well is that balance, with some luxurious classic comforts.” He is aware that this means incorporating things that aren’t necessarily hyper-local to Walland, Tennessee. “We use the best products that are available,” he says. “So while tuna is not local to East Tennessee, it is very delicious,” he adds with a knowing chuckle.
At Blackberry, of course, the menu is dictated by the whims of both nature and the chef, so your next visit might include one or none of these offerings. But the setting itself is a perennial highlight, whether you’re experiencing a tasting with a guest winery or merely spending 20 minutes walking in the garden, taking in the fresh air, and keeping an eye on the sheep that are raised there. If you try the latter, you might just run into Iaconis. “To take that 20 minutes right before service starts to go to the garden, to see what’s growing, it’s a nice treat,” he says. “To go stand in the garden and breathe that fresh mountain air and feel all the life around you. Not to be sentimental, but it’s really a gift.”
This being the Food issue, it’s worth noting Blackberry’s commitment to wellness, and the relationship between food and wellness in all our lives. This is often literal — you are what you eat and all that — but Blackberry Mountain Assistant Director of Wellness Meghan Henley elevates it, you might say, by incorporating food elements into the spa treatments themselves. For example, one massage treatment incorporates herbs and flowers grown at Blackberry, and another uses a bourbon treatment with whiskey you might be drinking later at dinner. A yoga session might end with the class receiving flower essence as a gift, made from flowers harvested on site.
Of course, meals prepared for wellness programs and events are also monitored for healthy ingredients. No added sugars, for example, and rarely will there be red meat. Even some of the skincare products on offer, created in collaboration with Tammy Fender, are plant based. And the spa now offers smoothies with adaptogens. But that doesn’t mean you can’t have some steak and wine at dinner.
“Everything is about balance” at Blackberry, Henley says. “We don’t believe in overdoing any area of your life.” Indeed, at Blackberry, even moderation is a form of luxury.
OBSESSION OR PASSION
Text by Laura Butler + Photograph by Robert Rausch
Passion or obsession? Fact or perception? Logic or feeling? The lines drawn between should be easy to see. Unfortunately, they are not. Take, for example, my experience with a food obsession that was meant for a healthy lifestyle. Instead, it was an experience that was quite the opposite.
I never worried about weight as a child, not that many do, but rather there was no need to worry. I was active and I ate well enough to be considered in generally good health. Upon entering college I became even more active, which kept the “freshman 15” at bay. I had a whole year of undergrad classes and student teaching left when I married my high-school sweetheart at the age of 21. It was a big year, a difficult year. I have many speculations as to why, but am still not certain why I began to focus so much on food and my weight during that time. “Focus” is a mild word, it was definitely an obsession. It was always in the back of my mind.
My daily journal turned into a food diary and calorie counter. I began to feel guilty when I ate anything less nutritious than vegetables or fruits. I would fast for one to three days, and skip meals to try and “restart” or “get back on track.” Ultimately, I ended up binge eating either because I couldn’t follow through or became frustrated. I had no concept of feeling hungry or thirsty. The lines were too blurred between my obsessive thoughts and what my body felt.
I remember attending an early morning faculty meeting when I was student teaching. I can remember looking around the room at other teachers sipping their coffee or eating breakfast. I wondered if they were thinking about food as much as I was, if it plagued their thoughts like it did mine. In the darkest moments, so desperate to feel comfortable in my own body and mind, I would attempt to make myself vomit what I had eaten. I may have succeeded once or twice but just wasn’t any good at it. Thank God I wasn’t. I envied those that were.
This was the norm for the next few years, filled with good days and bad. My husband and I moved to a new city with new careers and welcome distractions. I was fortunate to find a teaching position. While there, I compared my body quite often to those of the middle school girls I taught, as ludicrous as that may seem, and my coworkers.
Exercise did seem to help. It cleared my mind and grounded me mentally, physically, and spiritually. Slowly I caught on to this fact and leaned heavily into running, then into swimming, then added biking.
A mental breakthrough finally occurred when our second child was born in 2012. After a very difficult pregnancy, it was my first unmedicated birth. The experience was natural and raw. Even so, I later realized that my body had been in control the whole time. It knew exactly what was happening and exactly how to handle it. I was in awe. That experience taught me that our bodies, while perhaps glaringly imperfect to ourselves, are capable, resilient, and totally deserving of the utmost respect.
Even years later, I am haunted by some of the same thoughts and feelings from time to time. I exercise, quite often, to keep my mind clear and focused instead of obsessive and scattered. I also try to keep in mind how amazing our natural human bodies are and how they will do wondrous things if treated right. Most importantly, I strive to teach my four daughters how to do the same in hopes they will never fall out of a good relationship with food and their bodies.
Today, according to ANAD (National Association of Anorexia Nervosa and Associated Disorders), about 30 million Americans are dealing with an eating disorder, and ANAD provides resources to families and persons dealing with it. I cannot say I was ever diagnosed as having an eating disorder. I never once even thought of getting help. If I had mentioned it to my OBGYN, or any other medical practitioner, I know they would have been able to refer me for help. There are ways of breaking free from those obsessive thoughts.
Don’t Call Me A Food Photographer
Text and Photography by Angie Mosier
Glistening, oiled-up vegetables, overworked stacks of meat and cheese held up by a scaffolding of toothpicks, fake ice cream—these are the sort of things that commercial food stylists and food photographers are familiar with and often end up talking about when discussing their careers. For many years I worked as a food stylist before setting about photographing food for myself. I know the tricks to make food defy gravity and hold up under lights.
Commercial food photography can be fun and is essential to advertising and marketing, but after working with food images in one way or another for over 30 years, it’s the back story of the food that compels me to keep shooting. My style of food photography has always been to shoot real food made by real people to tell a real story. It's a sort of anthropology, really.
The first real project I ever photographed was for myself. I set out to document family reunion food. Brightly colored Tupperware containers with masking tape labels that state the name of the cook to whom the container belongs sparks joy in my heart. A grandmother’s avocado green stove with a grease saver on top is pure art. The documentation of farming, fishing, processing, cooking, cleaning, and the folks who do that good work is more about the food to me than a photo of a plate of food. And while I like to take beautiful still life shots of vegetables that may end up being the cover of a book or photos of composed plates of food too, don’t call me a food photographer.
From the editor: I met Angie in the early 2000s. I knew about Angie Mosier from my friend Ryan Gainey. All I knew about her was that she was an incredible food stylist who made beautiful cakes. Ryan had one of her cakes in his storefront window and kept it there until it rotted. Ryan was the sort of person who demanded bold, creative thinking from everyone in his world and Angie had cracked the code to his inner circle. Even though I met her over 20 years ago, her reputation as a creative powerhouse was well known before then. Angie's fiery red hair only adds to her striking talent of creativity that flows through her musical talent, styling, writing, culinary, and now photography. It's her positive energy and outlook that make her a joy to work with. The sky could be falling, and she would say "Look at the colors and the light, capture that image, it's beautiful" and it would be. She is the one you want to work with on days when nothing goes right, because it will end up being a beautiful day. I am honored to have her share her work with us.
Ice Box
Text and Photography by Oona Nelson
When I was growing up, the freezer was a place of comfort within my Swedish mother’s strict, health-food household. Ice cream was her weakness, and I could always find a treat inside the freezer. In college, my roommate Jon Vincent turned our freezer into a frozen diorama, placing Godzilla and Yeti figures alongside my frozen pizza. I always thought of it as a trashy version of a Fabergé egg.
For my own Ice Box series, I wanted to do something whimsical and quick. I ordered a Magic Chef MCUF3W2 freezer and lugged it up to my walkup studio. Tending to the freezing process took much longer than I had anticipated. The defrosting then cleaning was messy and arduous, but it gave me time to contemplate the Ice Box still lifes I wanted to construct. I wanted them to reflect the Anthropocene Epoch and our spoiled slide toward extinction, and as I worked with the freezer I began to draw parallels to European still-life painting of the 17th and 18th centuries. These exquisite paintings reflected the increasing urbanization and commercialization of European society and the concurrent emphasis on the home and personal possessions including food, game, and exotic goods. Many of these paintings were aspirational in nature, reflecting the newfound wealth brought by colonialism, the exploitation of resources and human beings. Such wealth provided European monarchs, aristocrats, and merchants with the means to become patrons of the arts.
That era finds its equivalent in today’s culture of consumerism, excess, and luxury. I’m not exempt; I’m a creature of privilege and convenience who thinks nothing of buying a handful of tulips, a nice bottle of French wine, or a wedge of stinky cheese on a whim. I have a good friend who loves to forage for food, stepping out of her Porsche in high heels to pick dandelion greens alongside the freeway. One of my neighbors owns three houses and is remodeling his kitchen, even though he doesn’t cook.
By contrast, some 70% of agricultural workers in the U.S. are immigrants, many children, who often work under atrocious conditions. Around 30-40% of the food they pick ends up in a landfill, along with more than 40 million tons of plastic waste per year. The statistics and practices are staggering.
For my next Ice Box project, I will invite other artists to install their work in my freezer, turning it into a private exhibition space. I’ll be on hand, waiting for things to freeze, then defrosting, cleaning, and mopping up what’s left behind.
The Physics of Restaurants
Text by John T. Edge + Mixed Media by Blair Hobbs
The clerk slides open the window and I stand on tiptoes to order. Over his shoulder, in blue pools of fluorescent light, I glimpse serious men bent over long tables, smiling men leaning into the bar, laughing men standing in clutches, drunk men sprawled across the bleachers that face the money table. I smell chewing tobacco, stale beer, and mustard. I hear the clank of beer bottles and the clatter of pool balls. The year is 1972.
Each time my father and I walk the streets of Macon, Georgia, from his office to the pool hall, we order and then retreat from the window to eat our chili dogs on a bench. At first, I think we eat there because a bench is a pleasant place to sit. Over time, I realize that no women or children are allowed inside. Staring over that clerk’s shoulder, I sense but fail to recognize a contradiction.
Bars and restaurants are supposed to be public spaces. They are also private places onto which owners and customers tattoo beliefs and ideas. For now, I’m too young to grasp this. What I know is that I want inside. As I grow older, I carry that want forward.
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After college, I sell a stream of financial news and analysis to credit and risk managers. For a small-town Georgia boy, Atlanta is my city on a hill. At a dim sum house called Royal China, tucked into a strip mall off Buford Highway, I become a Sunday regular. Over steamed bao stuffed with roasted pork and shu mai bulging with steamed shrimp, I watch and listen and imagine a life in which trolleys loaded with delicious things orbit the weekday lunchrooms I frequent.
As I eat my way through the roster of dishes, moving from deep-fried taro balls in furry crusts to banana leaf–wrapped packets of sausage-stuffed sticky rice, steering clear of the chicken feet with outstretched help-me toes, I navigate a path that requires fluency in black vinegar dunks and chili oil swabs, and dexterity in chopstick usage and noodle scissoring. As waiters course the dining room, I smile and listen and nod and pretend that I belong.
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At the end of a three-week solo bike ride through France that ends in Paris, I plot to spend the last of my frequent flyer points, earned before I quit my last corporate job, to fly my new girlfriend over to meet me. Friends plan to kidnap Blair and drive her to the Memphis airport. For dinner, I book Le Grand Véfour, a baroque and beloved Michelin three-star. Love-struck after three weeks without the woman who will become my wife, I reserve the table where Napoleon courted Joséphine.
Via a pay phone that crackles and pops, Blair tells me that her passport has expired. And there isn’t enough time to renew. Alone that afternoon in that luxe restaurant, watching waiters glide between banquettes, I witness the call-and-response of servers and the served. Eavesdropping on neighboring tables, I wonder what trials my fellow diners have left behind and what joys they will return to.
Restaurants and bars are palimpsests that we inscribe and erase. The physical record of our time together vanishes each time a porter buses our table. Before they do, we project lives onto brick and mortar and timber.
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I stand in a gravel lot, staring at the cedar posts and tin roof that frame Old Clinton Bar- B-Que near Gray, Georgia. The smell of wood smoke and roasted pork catapults me back to childhood. Here, I used to eat Brunswick stew crumbled with saltines, and barbecue sandwiches doused in ketchup-sweetened vinegar sauce. Here, I search for a past that will not have me. The pool hall where my father and I ate our weekday lunches of chili-slaw dogs and potato chips closed in the previous century. After I left for college, Old Clinton pulled out their hardwood-fired poured-concrete pit and replaced it with a machine.
After I write of my disappointment in a revision to my second book, the new owner of Old Clinton refuses to take my calls. Thirty years gone from home, I stand in that gravel lot, on the outside again, longing for what I lost. Nostalgia born of belief in a more perfect past is dangerous. Especially for those of us who were born or raised or live in this haunted place we call the South. Yet here I return.
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“Don’t park under the exhaust fan.” After I write about Crechale’s, the Jackson, Mississippi, roadhouse, famous since the 1950s for fried shrimp and onion rings and flickering neon, a friend shares that tip via Twitter. Gunk flies from the fan, he suggests. And that gunk will coat your car. Maybe your clothes.
My friend’s warning also carries a promise: Crechale’s is less than perfect. To dine at Crechale’s is to witness decline. Just as a look in the mirror reflects the stamps of time on my body. I trust places that show wear and resolve. I long for places that span generations and connect this moment to that earlier one.
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I scan online bulletin boards devoted to bankrupt restaurant chains. I surf websites that focus on shuttered malls of inner-ring suburbs, looking for references to Farrell’s, the chain that sold ridiculous amounts of ice cream delivered to the tune of ridiculous jingles. I dive into a digital archive, in search of the Birmingham take-away where I once bought almond cookies.
And I read books that chronicle histories of closed restaurants. Published by the History Press, the Lost Restaurant series totals more than two dozen and spans the country from Walla Walla, Washington, to Charleston, South Carolina. I never lived in any of these cities. I ate in few of these restaurants. Yet for a span of ten days, I read one Lost Restaurant book a day. And I scroll Amazon for more.
Reading about the Inferno, a mid-twentieth century Knoxville, Tennessee, hotdog drive-in that encouraged highway drivers to “Go to the Devil,” I want something naïve that I can’t have. Thinking about the Hillbilly Rest-Runt, which opened in 1951 in Asheville, North Carolina, with Dover sole on the menu and a pig sty on the roof, I want something wrongheaded that I can tuck safely into our past.
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Over a dinner of steak and creamed spinach and frites in a Memphis restaurant that conjures Paris, I ask Blair what she makes of my fascination with restaurants. She talks about belief. And she talks about physics, explaining how, in the world of restaurants, places are the matter and people are the energy. And she says that when I talk about restaurants, she hears me talk about both.
Blair and I aim to be part of exchanges that began before we arrived and continue after we depart. We want to belong to other people for the time it takes to eat a burger and fries at a diner counter in a city that is not our own, for the time it takes to elbow-grind divots in the bar at the local where the tenders know the name of our child and our favorite drinks. In this age of discord and division, Blair and I claim public spaces to celebrate and mourn, to mark passages and ask questions.
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In the spring of 2021, I am at home in Oxford, Mississippi, cooking burgers, relying on a recipe inspired by Laha’s Red Castle in Hodgenville, Kentucky, when our son Jess asks, “What’s your favorite restaurant we’ve eaten in together?" At first, I think his invitation to reminisce is the first step in proposing a road trip. As the father of an 18-year-old, I blush with pride.
Jess gently sidesteps. He just wants to recall those nights, how he felt, what we ate. He wants to talk about the torched hamachi at O Ya in Boston, the seafood tower at One Fifth in Houston, the smile of the waiter at Monteverde in Chicago.
More than the tilt of his nose, this gesture marks Jess as my child. When he asks my favorites, I stumble toward an answer until Blair swoops in. “I always think about the last restaurant we really enjoyed,” she says. “That’s my favorite.” What she means, I think, is that the moment, not the meal, is the prize.
A Sweet Tradition:
Loachapoka's Autumn Celebration
Text + Photography by Elliot Knight
One day each October, the population of Loachapoka, Alabama, balloons to around 10,000 as visitors descend to attend the Syrup Sopping. The event, first held circa 1972, was technically the Lee County Historical Fair happening concurrently with and adjacent to the Syrup Sop, but I never heard it called anything other than the Syrup Soppin’. Local parlance tended to silence the G in sopping.
From Auburn, drive west 7 miles on Alabama Highway 14 to Loachapoka (pop. 165), the one place I know because of a breakfast condiment. This association began to form in 1989 when I attended my first Syrup Sopping, which became an annual family outing that I looked forward to until I reached the age where I thought I was too cool for that kind of thing.
My mind immediately conjures images of highly viscous dark amber waves of pure cane syrup cascading down from a jar then flattening and spreading over a warm biscuit, enrobing the flaky goodness beneath.
The only place to park was on the side of Highway 14, and the cars stretched for what seemed like miles as we approached Loachapoka. It wasn’t always such an extravagant production with a footprint sprawling across both the north and south of the highway. When I first attended it was still a small, local affair, and in the good old Soppin’ days, before the hungry masses grew so large that biscuit preparation had to be outsourced to Hardee’s, community members baked sweet potato biscuits and fried up sweet potato fritters. These slightly orange masterpieces were the perfect vehicles for fresh local cane syrup.
You can also buy the syrup, and in those days it came in a metal can, like a quart of paint that requires a can opener every time you want to take the lid off, with an inevitable drip down the side. Eventually, as demand increased glass jars of different sizes were introduced. I remember a white paper label with a simple illustration of a mule powering the cane mill.
Other than the biscuits and syrup, the event seemed to have a theme that could be described as settler, old timey, agrarian, but this seemed to sometimes be a loose organizing principle. Local musicians played throughout the day, cloggers clogged, the olden ways were demonstrated, and there were blacksmiths, quilters, potters, rockhounds, and booths where artists and craftspeople sold their work.
The centerpiece of all this is a community syrup production facility. After the cane is harvested and on site, the process begins with crushing the raw cane to extract liquid that is then boiled down into the finished product. The mill that cane is fed through is powered by a mule walking in circles. As the cane is crushed the liquid pours down through a screen and collects in a large bucket. The liquid is then cooked down in long metal trays until enough water has evaporated that it is the perfect syrupy consistency.
After a long run of attendance as a child, I didn’t go again until 2009 when I made these photos. This fall, my oldest daughter will be the same age as I was when I first experienced the Syrup Soppin’, and I am looking forward to making sweet new memories in Loachapoka with my family. Come and taste for yourself at Syrup Sopping Day at Pioneer Park.
The Ruth Purdy Speake Cabin offers a look at the frontier days of Alabama. It was moved on site from its original location in nearby Chambers County and named for a long-time President of the LCHS who supervised its relocation. Demonstrations of open-hearth cooking in the fireplace are shown on Second Saturdays. It also contains a one-room school typical of the late 1800s.
Shaken. With a Twist.
Text by Christopher Draghi
It’s hard to travel through the Tuscan countryside and not be seduced by the sheer beauty of it all. The hills as they fade into one another, and their silhouettes marked with quick, upright strokes of cypress that overlook the valleys. It’s the dreamland of the collective conscience, the backdrop to our favorite films, and the destination goal of our next vacation. It is also the land of world-renowned “Super Tuscan” red wines and a sublime cuisine that embraces its rustic heritage.
It is because we all “know” Tuscany so well, at least in our imagination, that when something, or someone, introduces something new and innovative, it shines all the brighter. Especially when it is executed with the same level of passion and intention that made Italy synonymous with beauty in the first place.
Jenny Cucuzza is a modern taste-maker in one of the postcard-esque villages that adorn the prima collina (first hillside) along the Tuscan coast. Her petite Madama Café is nestled in the center of her native Casale Marittima, a quintessential hilltop village overlooking the famed wine region of Bolgheri. Jenny’s joyful spirit is on full display in Madama’s colorful, boho-chic environment that is half fashion boutique and half cocktail bar, where she creates some of the most fabulously decorated and equally tasty libations this side of, well, anywhere. (I am still dreaming of the Coffee Negroni I had a few months back!)
“I try to bring my incredible love of color, life and fun into everything that I do. Everything should communicate color and playfulness so that every decoration, every recipe is created based on my clients so that it is the most effective and authentic. The idea of making products terrorizes me!”
The unique flair she brings to the vibrant drinks and small plates on the menu is born from Jenny’s background in fashion and textile design, as well as her adventures traveling the world “collecting experiences, fragrances, and spices.” There is a beautiful connubio of whimsy and serious mixology at Madama. Cocktails may arrive to the table with a heavy dose of decoration but beauty here is not just skin deep. Pull back the flower blossoms and botanicals that embellish the glasses and you’ll taste true technique and innovation with flavor profiles that playfully lull you into her rose-tinted world.
“Beauty is a blend of elegance and harmony but I celebrate another type of beauty as well. Beauty that emanates from the celebration of everyday life! We are all beautiful when we’re happy, when we have fun, and it repays us in return.”
Jenny views beauty as evolving from the two-dimensional to something more elevated that, in the context of her craft, comes from the interaction and response of her guests, the moments shared and the memories created. Jenny describes time as being the fourth dimension of beauty as it transcends the material into the everlasting.
Time spent at Madama Café is a technicolor adventure surrounded by decor of bold patterns and colorful textiles that speak the same language as her cocktails. It’s like a passage into an ever-so-skewed fairy tale. There’s humor and levity with a pinch of punk that can’t help but put a smile on your face. Aperitivo hour at Madama is energetic and jovial, as Italian cocktail bars are known to be. Laughter and positive energy bounce off the close walls where you’re likely to rub shoulders with a stylish Italian or two, or more. It only adds to the happiness and fun that Jenny exudes and preaches. Like being in Alice’s Wonderland or Dorothy’s OZ, what Jenny has created at Madama Cafe is a visual adventure and fantastical perspective of beauty as she intends it… all mixed up in a shaker!
Shaking it up.
A friend of mine says that Brian Lovejoy looks like a Brooklyn hipster with his full beard, rustic look, plaid shirt (although I have never seen him wear plaid) and thick eyebrows. All this may make him look serious, perhaps even brooding, but it doesn’t take long to know that this is only a faÇade. When he talks about craft cocktails he lights up, and any menacing preconceptions melt away. His humor is dry with a twist-quick wit. And, as any good Southerner, he is the consummate host with plenty of stories to tell.
Brian’s interest in the art of mixology began when we offered to help a friend open the Clinton Street Social Club in Iowa City. He wanted the bar cocktails to reflect the historical context of the restaurant, which sent him into a deep dive of studying the history of bartending, American prohibition, and alcohol-based elixirs, or spirits, that were crafted to cure ailments (or at least distract from them!).
Brian’s touchstones in the world of mixology are famed bartenders/authors Jeffrey Morgenthaler and Toby Maloney and venues such as Milk and Honey in Atlanta and The Patterson House in Nashville, and they informed his own vision of what the American craft bar could be.
When he moved back to his home state of Alabama to start a distillery he was waylaid by opening the bar at Odette Restaurant in Florence. Inspired by the James Beard award-winning Cure in New Orleans, at Odette, Brian created an inviting craft cocktail bar within the Southern eatery with enough spirits to tickle your fancy and to cure any ailments along the way.
In 2021 Brian purchased the eccentric Mr. Norms Lounge on the site of the oldest bar in the Shoals. A left-over from the days when Florence was dry, and you had to make your way to Tennessee to get an alcoholic drink, Mr. Norms got a spruce-up from Brian that brought some new patrons into the mix. The eclectic venue, karaoke bar and all, boasts an inclusive, come-as-you-are environment that has resonated with locals and visitors alike. The lounge conveniently adjoins Brian’s newest venture, Up Late Night at the Vivian Theatre. The reimagined, historic cinema embraces its 70s-era roots with the additions of a bar, dance club, and events space that now serves not only popcorn and snacks but Brian’s inspired cocktails, too. The authentic Yolanda Baker disco ball hanging in the back of the theatre is a (literal) shining example of Brian’s knack to stir things up with equal parts whimsy and nostalgia.
Tastemakers
Three designers share how food influences their work (and vice versa)
Text by By Paul L. Underwood
Clothing. Food. Shelter.
Three basic human needs that are often anything but. What you wear, what you eat, where you live — these things are often influenced by your background and your culture. Due to climate alone, how you dress if you’re raised in Alabama will be different than how you dress if you’re raised in California. Or Italy. Or Japan. Or Buenos Aires. Ditto what you eat.
No wonder, then, that fashion designers are often inspired by food, sometimes even serving it up themselves. (See: Ralph Lauren’s Polo Bar in NYC, or Giorgio Armani’s international network of ristorantes and caffès.) And, of course, one only need see the stylish chefs on The Bear (and their real-life analogs) to understand how fashion has influenced those who feed us. And last fall, The Museum at the Fashion Institute of Technology (MFIT) presented Food & Fashion, an exhibit replete with corn and tomato-printed dresses by Cynthia Rowley, a Moschino dress patterned like a Hershey’s bar, and a Stephen Jones hat with embroidery resembling a PB&J.
So it seemed like a good time to speak with three designers dear to our hearts who have explored this intersection in their lives and their work: Natalie Chanin of Alabama Chanin; Billy Reid; and Lauren Bush Lauren of FEED Projects.
Each one offers a distinct perspective — Chanin recently turned her business into a nonprofit, inspired in part by the example set by Southern Foodways Alliance, while Reid’s approach to design embodies the generosity and bonhomie of a good host. (Which Reid is.) And, of course, the sales of Lauren’s bags have helped feed people through its partnership with Feeding America, a model that other businesses have emulated over the years.
Their thoughts are below.
Natalie Chanin, Alabama Chanin
For more than two decades, Natalie Chanin has been producing beautiful, ethical, sustainable clothing from her home base in Florence, Alabama. She has also made forays into food, whether through her collaboration with Heath Ceramics or with the cafe that once lived at The Factory, her shop and design studio. Her latest project: combining Alabama Chanin, The School of Making, and Project Threadways into a single nonprofit, aimed at fostering a community around craftsmanship.
It’s an exciting time, and Chanin’s enthusiasm was palpable throughout our conversation.
On fashion following the food world
I’ve leaned towards sustainable design my whole career, but when I came back to Alabama [in 2000] it was so interesting. I had been living in Europe for 10 years, and I felt like the food I was buying [in America] didn't have the same kind of flavor.
I have always credited a friend of mine, [writer and past president of SFA’s Board of Directors] Angie Mosier, and the work that the Southern Foodways Alliance was doing, to help me understand how foodways have changed in our community since I was a kid. When I started that deep dive into flavor, it unfurled a whole lot of different conversations and made me think about the threadways and what was happening in fashion too. I often say that the fashion industry is at least 20 to 25 years behind the food industry.
On shaking the hand that clothes you
We talk a lot about sustainable design, but really sustainability is food, clothing and shelter. That's what it takes for humanity to live, and if you can shake the hand of the people that provide those things to you, then we're doing good as a nation and a world.
On the human touch
We have a collaboration with Heath Ceramics, and they make multiples of the plates that they make, but each of the makers has a little mark, and they stamp the back of the plate with their mark. Every plate is different. Every glaze is slightly different. And I think you see that in the pieces, and I would think — or hope — that our collection would be very much the same.
With AI and all the conversations that we're having on a global level now, the mark of the human is going to be ever more luxury and ever more part of what we as humans want.
On going nonprofit
We're still transitioning. It's gonna take a year to fully transition. We got a grant to explore what [going non-profit] might look like. So the work of Alabama Chanin and the School of Making [a space for conversations, workshops and more] all moved to the nonprofit Project Threadways and now we're still sorting out all of the little pieces. I imagine it'll take about a year to finish it all.
On craft
You know, America used to be a nation of makers. When I grew up, we made the best cars. We were renowned for our refrigerators, that sort of thing. I think we've devalued the makers. I think we need to build this back into our community structure. I believe that, and that I'm not unrealistic.
Billy Reid
To walk into a Billy Reid shop is to be overwhelmed by hospitality, often including an offer of bourbon from one of the friendly employees. That approach starts at the top, as the designer is a gregarious and thoughtful host, and knows his way around a kitchen. (Not coincidentally, he has collaborated with Williams-Sonoma on a beautiful line of home goods.)
We asked him how a good shirt is like a good meal, and whether he’s ever considered opening a restaurant. (Spoiler: He has.)
On the similarities between food and fashion
The processes can have some similarities, certainly. Let's say a great-tasting meal that a chef has prepared. So much is about the ingredients. For us, those are the materials, the textiles — the types of buttons, the inner linings, and all of those things that make that piece of clothing, versus all of those things that are selected to make that meal. The materials are where you start from — it matters so much what the quality might be or just the reaction you might have to it.
On hosting
Food definitely brings people together. I've always thought the idea of hospitality and someone shopping are kind of the same thing to me. You're really trying to host them in your environment, whatever that might be. You want to always welcome someone like they’re a guest — it’s so overused, but it's true.
On designing home goods versus clothing
[I start with] what is the purpose? What are they going to use it for? If you make a shirt, and you say what is the purpose, [someone will say] “Well, I want a great-looking shirt and that feels good, and I want to be able to wear it under my jacket and I want to be able to wear it with my jeans.”
Okay, so then if you're making something for someone's kitchen or their bar, you know it’s something they could be looking at every single day. A guy could have, you know, 15 different shirts or 25 different shirts. But how many bar carts are they going to have? It has to be able to have an environment that feels right. It's going to live with them. I try to try to do that with clothing. You want it to be able to live with someone. They're going to use it, and they're going to have it for a long time.
On someday opening a restaurant
I've wanted to do it for so long. I have dreams and visions of doing it. Also, knowing that I know absolutely nothing about the food industry other than how to eat it [laughs]. But I would love to build and design an environment that had these little things that could marry well with people that knew what the hell they were doing. It just feels like a natural progression. Honestly, it's been a dream of mine to do that.
On what he loves in restaurant design
I love lower lighting. There are places that you don't want to change because it's so familiar. You know the bar at City Grocery in Oxford, Mississippi [by] John Currence. Keep it just the way it is. Obviously, you’ve got to modernize, but the vibe, the smell, every little wear and tear in the place… it's just part of it. Those types of places resonate. It feels so good — [you] just love to have that feel-good warmth. It all feels like you're in the right spot.
On food memories growing up
Listen, I grew up with a grandmother that was the most amazing — I mean, she was just incredible, and she would spoil me rotten. She cooked everything I wanted all the time. And that love, that kindness, that she showed me was such a… I mean, to this day, just phenomenal.
Her mom was the cook at the high school. She was the lunch lady. This was like early 1900s. So she is running the lunchroom every day, cooking from scratch. It's a totally different time — and she did that for 35 years. And she also had a bakery in the back of her house [with] these big huge ovens like you would see in a pizza place in New York, just like that. She made wedding cakes and different things for people. She must have loved it to have done it that long.
She passed when I was about 8 or 9 years old, but I do remember those ovens, and those rolls that she made coming out of those ovens. Oh my God, cinnamon rolls, everything. I had visions of that, and those beautiful wedding cakes. People then didn't have a lot, you know?
Lauren Bush Lauren
In 2007, Lauren Bush Lauren introduced FEED Projects, a groundbreaking company that pioneered the one-for-one model, in which something is donated for every product purchased. Since its founding, FEED has helped provide more than 126 million school meals, and its flagship bag has never gone out of fashion.
We talked with Lauren about balancing sustainability and style, and how food and fashion made for a natural combination from FEED’s very beginnings.
On intertwining food and fashion
These are both things we engage with on a daily basis. FEED was founded upon the belief that food is a universal human right. I'm proud to have created something that can serve as a reminder of this mission every single day as our customers go about their commutes, errand-running, food shopping, and more, carrying one of our versatile bags.
I was especially inspired by this intersection on my travels. For example, while studying abroad in Australia, I was so inspired by their use of reusable grocery totes, far before we were doing so in the U.S. That was part of my inspiration for making FEED Bags — they're functional, sustainable, and make a difference in more ways than one.
On keeping the “fashion” in “sustainable fashion”
I want our customers to feel proud to carry a FEED bag — and to find one that fits with their style. We design with versatility in mind, keeping our designs seasonal and fresh, but functional and effortless enough for everyday wear. The mission is at the heart of everything we do, but ultimately, customers need to find the product itself appealing, too.
I think people are loyal to brands that share their values. We have remained committed to fighting childhood hunger since 2007, as well as to making high-quality goods that are sustainable and durable. We have some incredible customers who have been with us since the very beginning!
On staying true to the mission
The mission is what I'm most proud of and it's certainly something we've sustained throughout the years. To date we've helped provide over 126 million school meals. We've also engaged with other critical issues that have strong ties to hunger, like gender and racial inequity, climate change, and more.
On what she’s learned
How much time do you have? I think the mark of a good leader and entrepreneur is that you never stop learning. I will say I've always tried to trust my gut and that has been really helpful.
