Life’s Funny

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Phone Home?

No problem — if I can find it

By Maria Johnson

Because my husband, Jeff, and I are happily in a phase of life when we’re done with climbing ladders — both the corporate and the gutter-cleaning kinds — people will sometimes ask us, “How do spend your time?”

That’s easy: We look for our cell phones.

A lot.

So much so that we’re considering getting a landline again just so we can call our misplaced mobile phones.

Either that, or I’m gonna tape an oversized silk flower to my phone, like they do with pens at a bank.

Side note: If you still enjoy walking into a bank, pouring a jar of pennies into a coin-counting machine and feeling rich when you walk out with $12 in paper money, we could be friends.

More on this later. Back to the phone story.

Thank goodness, Jeff and I usually lose our cell phones one at a time, often while the other person is home.

Take the other day.

There we were, sitting in his upstairs office, sipping coffee and talking about our plans for the day, which, at that idyllic point, did not include spending a good chunk of the morning looking for my phone.

Mainly because I was holding my phone, glancing at my texts.

Then I decided to be more “present.”

Sigh.

See, we sometimes get on each other’s nerves by looking at our phones while the other one is talking. I know. It sucks. Especially when you’re the one who’s doing the talking.

Not so much when you’re “listening.”

Anyway, I realized that I was paying more attention to my friend’s text recommending a podcast called Dogs of Chernobyl than to what Jeff was saying, so I set my phone aside to focus on his words.

“Mmmm-hmmm,” I affirmed.

“I seeeee,” I validated.

“Gotcha,” I mirrored.

The next thing I know, I’m getting ready for the day, and I can’t find my phone.

Here, I would like to say that I don’t spend anywhere near the amount of time that the average American woman my age spends on her phone, which is . . . standby while I look this up on my (spoiler alert) phone … five hours and 17 minutes a week.

My weekly screen time is . . . hold on while I look this up, too.

Hmm.

Never mind. Not important.

What’s important is that I had a busy day ahead of me, but I couldn’t tell exactly how I was going to be busy without consulting the calendar on my phone.

Plus, how was I going to listen to Dogs of Chernobyl in the gym?

So, I did the most common-sense thing: I remembered the last time I had my phone — in Jeff’s office — and I returned to the scene.

Jeff was sitting at his desk, calmly working away, as if no crisis were unfolding.

I looked at the couch. No phone.

I felt between the cushions.

No phone.

I crawled around on the floor, looking under the couch.

No phone.

“Have you seen my phone?” I asked.

“No,” he said.

I retraced my steps. Office to bedroom to bathroom.

Bathroom to bedroom to office.

I closed the loop.

No phone.

“I’ll call it,” Jeff offered.

I appreciated his help, but I knew it wouldn’t do any good. My ringer was turned off, mainly because during the daytime I’m swamped with audio alerts from my Mom’s indoor security cameras.

In case you don’t know, these wireless contraptions are truly miraculous, and very helpful in keeping aging parents safe. But they tend to overshare. The cameras, that is.

Hence the silent phone.

But no worries. We had a backup plan for my phone.

“Could you use your Find My app to look it up?” I asked Jeff.

He did.

Twice before, this feature — which allows you to track another device — had helped us locate my phone, which I had dropped while hiking in the woods.

Fact: It’s fairly easy to spot a large lavender phone lying on top of leaves beside a trail.

But this time, on Find My, the gray dot representing my phone covered half the outline of our house.

Which meant a lot more potential hiding places.

For the sake of space, I will condense the next hour of our lives into a cartoon. You know the Family Circle comic where the mom asks Billy to go next door to tell Dolly it’s time for dinner, and the next frame shows Billy’s footprints all over the neighborhood, through swing sets and see-saws and hopscotch grids, before landing at the neighbor’s house?

Well, that was us.

Like tourists in a big city, following GPS “walking directions” by turning this way and that, waiting for the satellite to catch up and move their arrow in the right direction, we wandered through the house, delicately holding Jeff’s phone in front of us, following it like a magical beacon.

“I feel like a water witch with a divining rod,” Jeff said.

“Shhh!” I whispered, as if my iPhone might hear us and scurry away. “Look! We’re moving.”

My phone’s gray dot hovered near a wall that separated two rooms.

We searched both rooms.

Even though I was fairly certain I had not gone downstairs, we searched there, too, because the gray dot did not indicate which floor it was on.

Times like this, you realize how far you will go, trying to make a story make sense.

I found myself looking in my sock drawer.

In my nightstand.

In the laundry basket.

Inside the flippin’ dog food bin, for gawd sakes.

“Well, I don’t remember stirring the salmon and rice kibble with my iPhone, but you never know. I mean, the dot says you’re right here.”

Finally, I gave up and announced that I was going to the gym without my phone.

“If you find it . . . don’t call me,” I said, forlorn. “I’ll be in the gym, watching Stephen A. Smith with no sound.”

Side note: Watching ESPN’s First Take commentator Stephen A. Smith with no sound is almost as much fun as watching him with sound. Almost.

While I was out, I announced, I would run a few errands, including picking up some brackets to mount a wall hanging. I walked into a bedroom at the other end of the house to double-check the size of the wall hanging.

Yep.

There it was.

On the bed.

Next to the wall hanging.

My iPhone.

Obviously I had gone in there, at some point, after talking to Jeff that morning. I probably needed to lie down because I was so exhausted from being “present.”

Anyway, that’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.

“AHA!” I shouted from our older son’s childhood room. “Found it!”

“Where?” Jeff called from his office.

“In John’s room,” I hollered.

A few seconds passed. I knew Jeff was calculating.

“That app is not accurate inside of 30 or 40 feet,” he said.

“Mmm-hmmm,” I said absentmindedly, following my friend’s link to Dogs of Chernobyl.

A few more seconds ticked by.

Any second, I thought, he would walk into the room with his iPhone to test his theory.

Instead, I heard a plea.

“Do me a favor?” he said.

“Sure,” I replied.

“Call my iPhone?”

Life’s Funny

LIFE'S FUNNY

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Not-So-Mad Scientist

Get ready for a dose of Doktor Kaboom!

By Maria Johnson

The energy level in the room rises as an effusive man sporting a spiky, bleached-blond hairdo, bug-eyed welder’s goggles and a bright-orange lab coat tromps around stage, whipping up the crowd.

“YAH???” he hollers to the assembly.

“YAH!!!” the audience roars back.

It’s the kind of joyful call-and-response you might expect to hear at a tent revival, but the leader is not a pastor; he’s Doktor Kaboom, the kooky-looking scientist character created by Charlotte native and UNCG alum David Epley.

This month, Epley — who haunted the area around Tate Street as a student in the ’80s — will bring Kaboom to Greensboro’s Carolina Theatre.

Alexandra Arpajian, who is relatively new as the theater’s executive director, booked Epley’s act because she thought it would fit Greensboro’s family-friendly vibe. The show also matches her plan for the historic venue.

“Part of the mission of being a nonprofit is to develop the next generation, not just as theater goers, but as empathetic children who are ready to go into society,” says Arpajian, who also happens to be the mom of a 4-year-old daughter.

Her goal jibes with Epley’s knack for wrapping important life lessons in a veneer of playfulness. He instructs audiences to yell “Kaboom!” back at him whenever he bellows the word. The result is a chain reaction of silliness.

“KABOOM!”

“KABOOM!”

“It’s a verbal explosion of the character’s passion,” says Epley, a thoughtful and articulate guy who explains his alter ego in a telephone interview as he drives between gigs in Colorado.

“It’s really fun because, half the time, someone in the audience yells, ‘Kaboom!’ before I do.”

At 59, Epley is glad to return to the state where he was born, never mind that his Wikipedia page says he was born in Germany. That error is a testament to the believability of his character, who speaks with a German accent and assures the audience that he hails from the Rhineland.

In fact, Epley, whose heritage is mostly English and Scottish, was born into a middle-class family in Charlotte. His mom was the personnel manager of a large printing company. His dad was a photographer.

Meanwhile, Epley was in the basement, fiddling with chemistry sets, taking apart mechanical devices and putting them back together. In high school, he was one of the “smart kids.” Teachers flagged him as a prospect for the then-new North Carolina School of Science and Mathematics in Durham.

Epley spent his junior and senior years at the school for advanced students. There, he took rigorous classes from Ph.D.-level teachers.

“It was a wonderful, magical gift from the state of North Carolina to the students who went there,” Epley says, noting that many of the school’s alumni have gone on to prestigious careers in the arts and sciences.

Bored by one class, he and some classmates made up funny personas and attended class as their characters. Afterward, they roamed campus, still in character. Some teachers did not appreciate the comic relief. Others loved it.

“A lot of people just wanted to support whatever artistic expression these weird little kids were coming up with,” he says. “That’s where I found out that I really loved performing.”

After graduating and logging a stint in the Army Reserve, he headed to UNCG to study chemistry with the idea of transferring to Duke University or N.C. State for biomedical engineering.

A funny thing happened on the way to the lab.

Epley took some acting classes in UNCG’s renowned drama department.

“I knew nothing about acting I just knew that I was enjoying it,” says Epley, whose after-class memories include eating at New York Pizza, hanging out at a bar called The Last Act and working at Crocodile’s Cafe, all along Tate Street.

He switched majors and graduated with a bachelor’s degree in fine arts. Then and now, he scoffs at the idea that people who are good scientists can’t be good artists and vice versa.

That belief, he says, has made programs devoted to STEM — science, technology, engineering and math — fall short of their potential over the last 20 years because the best scientists are also creative thinkers.

“STEM is a lovely thing to focus on, but we’ll end up with a nation of lab technicians,” he says. “If we support creativity, then we become a nation of innovators.”

It took Epley a while to figure out how to blend art and science into a career.

For nearly 20 years, he and a troupe of comic actors known as Theater in the Ground traveled the country performing at Renaissance festivals.

“Imagine the Marx Brothers doing Beowulf,” he says.

He grew more serious about comedy when he became a father in his late 30s. He needed more income, a show he could manage by himself and a shtick that would fill performance halls.

That’s when he invented Kaboom, the embodiment of his first love, science, combined with his second love, stagecraft.

To prepare, Epley listened to hours of native German speakers on compact discs. He honed his character on the streets of Oswego, N.Y., during the Sterling Renaissance Festival.

After one performance, an older lady stayed to talk with Epley, who remained in character.

“After about 40 minutes, she goes, ‘I’m talking to you because my father was German, and he passed away when I was in my 30s, and I hadn’t heard his voice again until today.’”

The thought of that encounter still gives Epley goosebumps today. But the interaction that really hit home happened a few years into Kaboom’s road show.

He brought a kid on stage and began his usual patter.

“You’re a smart kid, yah?!” He asked.

The kid replied no, that he wasn’t smart.

Epley dropped to his knees and looked directly at the boy.

“I said, ‘You are smart. That’s why I picked you. I can see it in your eyes.’” he recalls.

Then Epley turned to the crowd: “Listen, if anyone ever asks you if you’re smart or creative or clever, don’t say no. Look them right in the eye and say, “YAH!” I worked with that boy until he was saying that and meant it . . . That’s when I learned I could do more than science and humor. I could teach empowerment. If I hadn’t found that, I probably wouldn’t still be doing this. That’s the aspect that brings me the most joy.”

Of course, there’s a strong dose of education in Epley’s show.

Kaboom talks about the importance of the scientific method, of testing hypotheses, of getting repeatable results. He uses everyday chemicals and oversized props to make things fizz, whiz, foam and pop. He uses a slingshot and a banana to great effect. A demonstration with dry ice yields a “controlled explosion.”

Inspired by the challenges that students faced during COVID, Epley’s latest show, which is titled Under Pressure, demonstrates how pressure can be channeled — both physically and emotionally — to make positive things happen in science and life.

Commissioned by the Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts, where Epley took the stage as Kaboom last year, the production is being pitched to streaming apps as a family-centered comedy special.

His shows are aimed at students in grades three through eight, but his comedy has drawn kudos as entertainment for all ages.

Comedian Dave Chappelle, who was once a neighbor of Epley’s young family in Yellow Springs, Ohio, took his children to Kaboom shows, and he supplied a glowing blurb before Epley’s first appearance at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival in Scotland.

“We watched our neighbor transform into this incredible character,” writes Chappelle. “He was funny! And fun for the whole family.”

Epley believes his current show represents his best work, which comes at the right moment in U.S. history.

“I think science is being disregarded,” he says. “Television and talking heads have created doubt in people’s minds about expertise, which I think is absolutely damaging the country . . . So I really think what I do is timely and important. We’re all in this boat together, so let’s paddle in the same direction.”

Yah?

Yah. 

Birdwatch

BIRDWATCH

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Cold Customers

Return of the dark-eyed juncos

By Susan Campbell

“The snowbirds are back!” No, not the thin-blooded retirees: They won’t be back until spring. These are the little black-and-white sparrowlike birds that appear under feeders when the mercury dips here in central North Carolina. They can be found in flocks, several dozen strong in some places. And, in spite of what you might think, they are far from dependent on bird seed in winter.

Dark-eyed juncos are a diverse and widely distributed species. Six populations are recognized across the U.S., Canada and Mexico. Slight but noticeable variations in appearance constitute the difference in these populations. Some have white wing bars while others sport a reddish back and the birds in the high elevations of the Rockies are recognized by extensive pinkish feathering on their flanks. Our eastern birds are known as “slate-colored juncos” for their dark brown to gray feathering. They are accustomed to cold temperatures whether in summer or winter. As with most migrant songbirds, their migratory behavior is based on food availability, not weather. Flocks will fly southward, stopping where they find abundant grasses and forbs. They will continue on once the food plants have been stripped of seed.

Dark-eyed juncos can be found throughout North America at different times of the year. During the breeding season, juncos are seen at high elevation across the boreal forests nesting in thick evergreens. Our familiar slate-colored variety breeds as close as the high elevations of the Appalachians. You can find them easily around Blowing Rock and Boone year-round. These nonmigrants actually have shorter wingspans as a result of their sedentary existence. Watch for male juncos advertising their territories up high in fir or spruce trees. They will utter sharp chirps and may string together a series of rapid call notes that sound like the noise emitted by a “phaser” of Star Trek fame.

In winter, flocks congregate in open and brushy habitats. Juncos are distinguished from other sparrows by their clean markings: dark heads with small, pale, conical bills, pale bellies and white outer tail feathers. Females have a browner wash and less of a demarcation between belly and breast than males. They hop around and feed on small seeds close to ground level. Some individuals can be quite tame once they become familiar with a specific place and particular people. Juncos do communicate frequently, using sharp trills to keep the flock together. They will not hesitate to dive for deep cover when alarmed.

So, the next time you come upon a flock along the roadside or notice juncos under your feeder, take a close look. These little birds will be with us only a few months, until day length begins to increase and they head back to the boreal forests from whence they came.

Wandering Billy

WANDERING BILLY

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This Girl Is On Fire

Kennedy Caughell brings heat to Hell’s

By Billy Ingram

“The road is there. It will always be there. You just have to decide when to take it.” ― Chris Humphrey

It’s becoming increasingly commonplace for leading actors in the Tanger Center’s Broadway Series productions to have significant local community connections. In November 2024, UNCG graduate D. Jerome infused heart and soul into The Wiz’s Tin Man and, earlier last year, Elon University alum Fergie Philippe proved roaringly romantic in Beauty and the Beast’s mane role.

One of Broadway’s brightest luminaries, Kennedy Caughell, 35, former Oklahoma farm gal who’s become another incendiary lit locally, alights into town next month in New York’s hottest property, Hell’s Kitchen. In its very first season, Hip-hop hitmaker Alicia Keys’ semi-biographical coming-of-age musical garnered an astonishing 13 Tony Award nominations and was a boffo box-office smash from day one.

Caughell’s portrayal of Jersey, emotionally embattled matriarch of the Keys-inspired character Ali’s family, is reaping rave reviews. In Chicago: “A powerful portrayal by Kennedy Caughell;” in Cleveland: “Caughell impresses again and again in big, emotionally impactful moments and with powerhouse vocal efforts;” in Pittsburgh: “The woman can belt! She crushes every musical number, especially ‘Pawn It All.’” You get the idea.

Her cruise across The Great White Way began, oddly enough, on Broadway. “My mom brought both me and my sister to New York,” Caughell recalls about her elementary school epiphany. “Annie was playing on Broadway at the time. Mom says I turned to her at intermission and said, ‘I could do that!’” Coincidence that her first professional acting job at 8-and-a-half years old was hamming it up in Annie? Starting in a supporting role, she soon took the lead. (This would kick off a recurring pattern.)

When consideration for college came, Caughell selected Elon University. “It was on the list of top 10 musical theater programs in the country,” she explains. “My mom and I visited to audition and I just fell in love with the place. It was so beautiful.” Situated between Greensboro and Burlington, Elon is known for exemplary acting, dancing and vocal training. “I feel like I really got a good ‘triple-threat’ training there. They encourage originality because that’s really what gets you hired as leads in the business, what makes you unique.”

Class of ’12 grad Caughell says, “I had a job before I even left college.” Discovered by Jillian Samini, she was cast as the jilted pregnant girlfriend Heather, one of the three female leads in the international Broadway tour of Billie Joe Armstrong’s and Michael Mayer’s American Idiot, which expands on the storyline delineated in the Green Day album of the same name. “I remember graduating, then, the next day, I was on a plane [to the United Kingdom] headed to the first day of rehearsal.” Her solo was a zippy, angst-free arrangement of “Dearly Beloved.” American Idiot’s Ireland/UK tour culminated after four months at London’s HMV Hammersmith Apollo, leading into the show’s second stateside run, which ended in the summer of 2013.

No rest for the wicked, you say? The next year, Caughell was swept into the twisted world of Wicked, broomsticking across the nation for two years as a member of the ensemble while understudying that wickedest of witches, Elphaba. “I would love to return to Wicked and play a full stint as Elphaba one day,” Caughell says.

In 2016, she made her Broadway debut in Natasha, Pierre & The Great Comet of 1812 alongside two other Broadway neophytes, Denée Benton and Josh Groban, understudying two supporting characters that she eventually stepped into. Following the folding of that show, she pirouetted into Broadway’s Beautiful: The Carole King Musical in February 2018 as King’s childhood friend, Betty, while at the same time understudying three roles, including the titular star.

During rehearsals, Caughell became acquainted with King. “An example of yes, you can meet your heroes and they exceed your expectations,” she says of the Grammy Hall-of-Famer who wrote or co-wrote 118 hit songs. “She walks in and lights up a room and everyone just feels peaceful and joyful around her.” In 2019, she hit the road with Beautiful, occasionally called on to channel Carole King under the spotlight. Her fave number? “(You Make Me Feel Like) A Natural Woman,” natch.

All About Eve aside, it’s exceedingly rare for understudies to emerge from the wings and assume the leading role for the run of a major show. “When they asked me to take over on the road, how could I say no?” Crooning Carole King’s compositions is an absolute joy for her. “Her style is very set and driven like a glockenspiel. It all sits in a really warm part of my voice.” Don’t you just love the way performers speak?

Broadway’s bright lights beckoned again in 2022 for Paradise Square, a star-crossed production that, despite an impressive 10 Tony nominations, resulted in a truncated time on the boards beset by backstage back-stabbery and a recorded but unreleased original cast soundtrack.

Which brings us to the present, where, in the role of Hell’s Kitchen’s Jersey, Caughell portrays an overly-protective single mother raising a street-level prodigy navigating life in a turbulent mid-1990s New York City. “She loves her daughter fiercely — she works two jobs so that she can give her a better life.” Caughell says of her character, who is overwhelmed by conflicts and consequences related to “what happens when love goes out of alignment and leans toward controlling. And what it means to be a mother and learn to let Ali grow up.” 

From tech rehearsals through opening nights and beyond, writer/producer Alicia Keys was very much present in mounting both the Broadway and touring companies. “She had a big hand in casting each and every one of us,” Caughell points out. “It’s very evident how much heart and connection she feels to this show and it’s so wonderful to have somebody like her at the helm, just leading with grace and peace.” Keys is known to surreptitiously slip into seats along the tour route, even offering notes afterward, “but that’s a good thing, right? She’s really good at steering us in the right direction.”

Again succumbing to that siren call of the open road, Caughell says, “I’m missing a lot of family events with my niece and nephew right now. There’s a lot we sacrifice that people don’t realize.” Remaining centered and in peak form is a priority. “You’re kind of in an isolated bubble where everyone has to find their own pathway.” Of former Elon classmate and rising Broadway star Fergie Philippe, wheels up under similar circumstances, she says, “We text on a regular basis — he’s a wonderful human being.”

While Caughell loves exploring new cities, there’s the delight that comes from reengaging with familiar faces in faraway places. Edging closer to the Triad, she says, “I’m looking forward to seeing all of my professors and visiting the campus at Elon. It’s been years since I’ve had time to come back and visit, so I’m excited.”

Granted, it’s a hard knock life nightly for her tempest-tossed character in Hell’s Kitchen, but, for Kennedy Caughell herself, the sun’ll come out tomorrow… in Cincinnati, St. Louis, Greenville, Durham and, on February 24, in Greensboro prior to opening night at Tanger, where no doubt she’ll shine like the top of the Chrysler Building.

Simple Life

SIMPLE LIFE

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My Own Soulful Green Books

Food for the journey ahead

By Jim Dodson

I’m often asked by readers where I find my ideas to write about each month.

“It’s simple,” I reply. “Life.” Hence the title of this column.

It helps, however, that I also have what I call my “Green Books.” Not the historic Green Book that served as a guide to safe places for accommodations and food for traveling African Americans in the mid-1900s South.

Mine are something very personal: four leather journals, several with cracked bindings from age, that I began half a century ago. In their pages, I’ve recorded memorable quotes, funny observations and the wisdom of others who graciously provided food for the journey ahead.

Today, four such books anchor my writing desk and library shelves, crammed full of helpful words — some famous, others anonymous, comical, spiritual or plain common sense — a resource I turn to when life seems out of whack, or I simply need a shot of humor or optimism to face the moment. 

A new year strikes me as the perfect time to share some of my all-time favorites.

“I fear the day that technology will surpass our human interaction. The world, as a result, will have a generation of idiots.” – Albert Einstein

OK. Had to put this one out first because I’m a confirmed Luddite who writes his books with an ink pen and can only function on a computer with proper adult supervision, meaning my wife, Wendy, a techno-whiz. Recently heard a “Super” AI “expert” warn that “living authors” will eventually be a thing of the past. That’s a world I don’t wish to live in.   

“I knew when I met you an adventure was going to happen.” – from Winnie-the-Pooh by A.A. Milne

This gem hung with an illustration of Pooh, Piglet and Eeyore on my childhood bedroom wall. Stop and think for a moment about the amazing people you didn’t know until they unexpectedly, perhaps miraculously, stepped into your life — and a new adventure began.

“Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your wild and precious life?” – From “The Summer Day” by Mary Oliver

This timeless poetic question hung on a banner over my daughter Maggie’s beautiful autumn wedding three years ago at her childhood summer camp in Maine. It’s one we all must invariably answer, even late in life. Especially late in life.

“I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.” – from Walden: or Life in the Woods by Henry David Thoreau, poet, naturalist, Transcendental rock star.

I discovered — and memorized — this stanza in Miss Emily Dickenson’s English Lit class in 1970 (by the way, her real name). So moved by it, I vowed to someday retreat to the northern woods. Looking back, I think it partially explains why I built my house on a forested hilltop in Maine. That gold-and-green woodland enchanted my children and their papa, a would-be transcendentalist who has learned more from the solitude of the forest than in any city on Earth.

“There will be a time when you think everything is finished. That will be the beginning.” – Louis L’Amour, Western novelist

Useful advice for those of us anxious about the fate of American democracy.

“Solvitur ambulando.” Translation: It is solved by walking. –
St. Augustine

Amazing what a good walk around the block or hike through the woods can do to calm the mind, work out a solution or simply remind one how life’s ever-changing landscape can clear away the cobwebs.

“Stop looking at yourself and begin looking into yourself. Life is an inside job.”

Someone once said this to me, but I can’t remember who. I sometimes remind myself of this when I’m shaving in the morning and see myself in the mirror, often followed by a second observation: I thought getting older would take more time.

“If something is lost, quit searching for it. It will find its way back to you.”

Sage advice passed along from a longtime golf pal’s mama. I’ve found it works splendidly with misplaced car keys, eyeglasses, wallets, (most) golf balls and missing Christmas candy. Not so much with politics or old romances.

“The meal is the essential act of life. It is the habitual ceremony, the long record of marriage, the school for behavior, the prelude to love. Among all peoples and in all times, every significant event in life — be it wedding, triumph, or birth — is marked by a meal or the sharing of food and drink. The meal is the emblem of civilization.” – James and Kay Salter, from Life Is Meals: A Food Lover’s Book of Days

A well-loved book in our household, one every food lover should own, a gloriously entertaining volume chock full of quirky, fun and extraordinary gems about the origins and traditions of food, drink and fellowship at the table.

“In an age of speed, I began to think, nothing could be more invigorating than going slow. In an age of distraction, nothing could feel more luxurious than paying attention. And, in an age of constant motion, nothing is more urgent than sitting still.” – from The Art of Stillness: Adventures in Going Nowhere by Pico Iyer

This note from this wise little book pretty much summarizes my personal ambition for 2026 — to go slower, to pay closer attention, to sit still as often as possible.

“Modern American society is marked by a high degree of mobility, a decline in voluntary civic activities, and an emphasis on rights (i.e. what others owe me). The result is rootlessness and detachment from family and friends. Higher crime rates, chiefly among youth, show a strong statistical correlation with lack of self-control. And moral disputes are often marked by dogmatism, the inability or unwillingness to see the moral force behind another point of view. In response, the possibilities for improvement include (1) reinvigorating our civic associations, (2) developing and inculcating self-control, and (3) demanding higher levels of mutual respect and tolerance in the way we speak to and treat one another.” – from Civility & Community by Brian Schrag

May you all have a safe and much more civil New Year. I leave you with one of my favorite wisdoms from my books:

“Do not be afraid, for I am with you. From wherever you come, I will lead you home.” – Isaiah 43:5

Home Grown

HOME GROWN

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Sugar Baby

Jonesing for a fun-sized fix

By Cynthia Adams

A fantastical shot of ice cream, jawbreakers and pastries make me drool like one of Ivan Pavlov’s dogs.

This sugar-charged chassis of mine has an internal engine that purrs at the sight of gooey sweets — then splutters and stops. Demanding a refill. 

A saner person, someone free from sugar addiction, may ask how it took root. Some claim they are salty people. Or savory people. Actually, I like those food groups too.

As it happens, we were born this way.   

A taste for sugar is hard-wired into human anatomy. 

“The brain is dependent on sugar as its main fuel,” says Vera Novak, associate professor of medicine. “It cannot be without it.” Scientists have found half of all sugar energy in the body is used by — get this — the brain.

In my case, too, there was a sugar pusher. Enter my father, Warren, the alpha of sugar addiction.

A dedicated sweets guy, our dad was known to make evening forays into Charlotte to Krispy Kreme, 50 miles roundtrip, returning with two dozen raspberry- filled pastries. Was he really responsible? Obviously, he had a very large brain, one practically demanding he stoke it with sugar.

Consider this: Krispy Kreme makes 5 million doughnuts daily. Statistically, that’s a lot of sugar-munching/brain-feeding, so Warren was hardly alone. 

He never met Winston-Salem founder Vernon Rudolph, but, if he had, dad would have definitely shaken his hand and invited him home for supper. (After licking the icing from his own.)

Warren would also have shaken the hand of Forrest Mars, creator of M&M’s candies. Fun-sized fact: Initially, the hard-shelled candies were sold exclusively to the U.S. Army during WWII. 

Dad loved those multicolored, sugar-shell-covered bits of chocolate, and so did I. When I was a child, he would sometimes take me on work trips, iconic brown packets of M&M’s marching across the molded dashboard. 

“If I start nodding off or acting sleepy, shake me and keep talking to me,” he ordered, knowing the sugar high would keep me chatty.

The neighborhood “juke joint” was where my sugar fixation became, well, fixed by the age of 5. The store possessed two marvels: a juke box and a multitude of candies. My quarters were stretched between playing favorite tunes and buying sweets.

Munching on a Butterfinger or a Baby Ruth, I’d dance, joyously spinning like a Sufi.

I didn’t snack on Snickers (originally Marathon, renamed for the Mars family’s favorite horse), but rectified that mistake later. The Snickers rebrand elevated it to the top-selling candy globally.

During my childhood, adults weren’t that worried about sugar.  Mornings called for sugary cereals like Alpha-Bits. I arranged the crystalline letters with my spoon to spell SWEET, one of my favorite words, sneaking in extra spoonfuls of sugar and just enough milk to keep five letters afloat.

The only milk I actually liked was the sugar-jazzed chocolate variety.

Grape juice, more syrup than juice, kept my child-sized lips perpetually encircled with a blurry smear of purple. After school, I craved ice cream or cookies. 

Ironically, children in my household weren’t allowed sweet tea until age 12, but were permitted Tang (thank you, NASA!), Orange Crush or Nehi grape. 

Grocery shopping now as a grown woman, I don’t stick to the store perimeter, as nutritionists advise. Even if I start out in the produce or fresh fruit sections, my cart pulls itself straight to the aisle of Forbidden Fruits. Namely, fruit-flavored gummies and candies. Goodies practically throw themselves into the shopping cart, my resolve melting faster than a Dairy Queen Blizzard on a sunny July day. In go jolly-looking jars of marshmallow fluff, sweet jams and bags of chocolates.

When in need of a fast fix, I binge on Nutella (spooned straight from the jar) or, recently, handcrafted Kilwins’ fudge (a gift to my husband) — or once, an entire bag of Dr. Atkins sugar-free candies.

Resolve is a strange animal. My hand reaches for crunchy peanut butter — natural, of course — when I’m feeling resolute. When it fades, anything can happen. After resisting the priciest chocolates still in their gilded gift box, I turn instead to a beguiling tin of Marks & Spencer’s Christmas cookies (called, quaintly, “biscuits”). Next, I hit hard candies, my emergency sweets stash, crunching away like a badger.

The night before my physical, despite being fearful of bad lab results, I polished off most of a “sharable”-sized bag of plain old chocolate M&M’s after a “healthy” dinner. Then I wolfed down more M&S biscuits.

(My glucose results were not great.) 

My dopamine-hooked brain once put my sugar fixation to good use — when weaning myself from smoking. Swapping one oral fixation for another, I kept a large bag of M&M’s in my desk drawer, finally leaving cigarettes behind. 

But, sadly, not sugar.

Some years ago, Delancey Street Moving and Trucking (whose innovative work programs support those overcoming addiction) moved us from our Westerwood home to Latham Park. My husband was called away, so I hustled alongside the movers.

At day’s end, we all flopped down on the driveway, sweaty and famished. Ripping into a bag of Snickers, I offered them around. The guys shook their heads, each lighting up a cigarette.

One gave a piercing look.

“I used to use,” he said, explaining how heroin derailed his life as a pharmacist.

“What’s your addiction?” 

With a jolt, I realized he’d spotted it. 

“Sugar,” I confessed. Taking a deep drag, he nodded knowingly.

Omnivorous Reader

OMNIVOROUS READER

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Sense of Urgency

The stories that need telling

By Stephen E. Smith

It happens to every writer. The moment comes, sometimes sooner than later, when it’s clear that he or she won’t live long enough to write every story that needs telling. The unwritten stories can be offered as spoken anecdotes, which, of course, vaporize the moment they’re uttered, so getting the stories down in print becomes a source of energy and inspiration. Pat Riviere-Seel’s collection, Because I Did Not Drown, derives its urgency from her desire to have the stories remembered — and to be remembered herself. “How long will the work of art last? Who will remember the artist . . . ?” she writes in her essay, “Unknown Artist.”

Reviere-Seel is the author of four poetry books, most notably the well-received The Serial Killer’s Daughter, which was published in 2009 by Charlotte-based Main Street Rag Press. Because I Did Not Drown explores both the exceptional and mundane — “kitchen talk,” the need for perseverance, the joy of pets (in this case cats), a stray fig plant growing by the back stoop, gun control, the loss of old friends, food lovingly prepared, an enthusiasm for jogging, “disenfranchised grief,” extraterrestrials, etc. Each prose chapter is written in straightforward journalistic prose and intended to convey helpful insights into contemporary life.

She begins her collection by recounting her personal experience with the COVID shutdown. She ends the book by detailing the ill effects of the pandemic’s aftermath, topics few writers have tackled (Sean Dempsey’s A Sad Collection of Short Stories, Cheap Parables, Amusing Anecdotes, & Covid-Inspired Bad Poetry is an amusing exception). This reluctance to write about the COVID experience can be attributed to what readers and writers might perceive as proximity aversion: the shock of COVID is still too much with us, and we’ve yet to sort out its spiritual and political implications. Reviere-Seel takes up the subject head-on: “But as the pandemic stretched into a second year, I became more frustrated, angry, and cranky. I missed my poetry group. I missed my friends. . . . We stayed home. We wore masks. We stayed six feet apart. We were grateful to be alive. . . . What had begun as a public health issue became a political issue. The usual anti-vaccine talk mingled with the talk of ‘the government can’t tell me what to do.’” Her concluding essay, “After the Pandemic,” suggests that kindness is the only possible remedy for a virus that continues to mutate: “Be kind. Most of us did not want to infect our family, our friends, our neighbors, or the checkout clerk at the grocery store who showed up for work every day. Genuine kindness is a balm, a gift, a grace.”

In her chapter “Talking About It,” she is straightforward about her struggles with breast cancer. “I didn’t talk about my experience with breast cancer,” she writes, but the death of an aunt who ignored a lump in her breast inspired her to share her experience. “Early detection and medical advances in treatment have meant that breast cancer is no longer the death sentence so many feared fifty years ago.” Her interaction with the medical community will be of particular interest. When she was denied an immediate needle biopsy, she reacted appropriately. “Nice was not working so I threw a fit, a nice-woman-goes-feral southern ‘hissy fit.’ A redhead-gone-rogue tantrum . . .  I was paying for a service, medical care, and I wanted — no, demanded — a say in when and how that service was delivered.” Her story is a paradigm for all women and men who find themselves caught up in our often lethargic and convoluted medical system.

The course of her disease followed a predictable path, but she made the necessary decisions to preserve her life. The description of her battle with breast cancer is timely, honest, reassuring and possibly lifesaving.

Following each of the prose passages, a poem explicates or explores the theme of the preceding chapter. The poems are well written and could stand on their own as a chapbook. “After the Diagnosis,” for example, follows the chapter on breast cancer:

There are nights — more

than you ever thought you could endure —

when sleep will not come

your thoughts — no, not thoughts —

the deep well of unknowing appears

endless. You try summoning

visions of sunrise, a shoreline, bare feet

running across packed sand. But morning

fog covers this foreign landscape.

Everything you knew for sure yesterday

washed away with the tide, predictable

too the magical thinking, maybe. Abandon

the dock, row your way into the nightmare, further

out is the only way back.

The use of verse to add emotional impact to the short personal essays may strike some readers as unnecessary. At the very least, the transition from journalistic prose to poetry is complex, requiring a complete shift in sensibility and focus. Nevertheless, she forces readers to grapple with many of our most vexing problems. 

Chaos Theory

CHAOS THEORY

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From Sourdough to Salem

Making a list and checking things off

By Cassie Bustamante

The Roman god Janus, after whom January was named, had two faces, one that looked to the past and one that looked to the future, symbolizing his domain over beginnings and endings. Last fall, too many endings piled up suddenly. Within the span of one week, a friend’s brother died unexpectedly, we said goodbye to a book club pal’s husband, an integral part of the Greensboro community whose effervescent life was cut much too short by cancer, and another friend tragically lost her beloved dog — all of this a month after my own Aussie-Weimaraner sidekick crossed the rainbow bridge. This perfect storm of grief and loss left me stunned and looking inward, and, frankly, ready to forge my own new beginning.

Plus, I’d just read about Greensboro Public Library’s “One City, One Book” pick, My Father’s List, by Laura Carney. When Carney discovered her late father’s bucket list among his belongings, she decided to honor him by checking off the boxes left incomplete. Instead of pondering how I want to be remembered, hopefully decades from now, I thought about how I want to live.

Inspired by Carney and driven by the mission to make the most of my days, I texted one of my best friends: “It’s a few months away, but next year in January, instead of a big goal for the year, I am going to make a 2026 bucket list and fill it with things I want to do.” No lofty goals of writing my first book or finally having six-pack abs. (At 47, it might be time to toss in the gym towel on that one.)

In December 2024, this particular friend and I had together decided to tap into our creativity in 2025, meeting once a month for a craft night. We managed only a few, but those rare evenings were precious to me. Our young kids would play while we made denim bracelets, pounded flowers — zero stars for that one, a total fail — and caught up on each other’s lives.

Her reply came almost immediately: “Could one of our craft nights be to make a tangible bucket that we put these little notes into?”

A couple hours later, another text came — this time, an image of a Halloween-decorated porch featuring a little cauldron. “Also . . . cauldron for bucket list?”

It was a big ol’ “yes” from me. I love all things witch adjacent. After all, I was named after a witch, Cassandra, on the vampire-themed soap opera of the 1960s, Dark Shadows, and I grew up not far from where the infamous Salem witch trials took place. I’m just accepting my destiny. Crystals sit on my dresser, a manifestation candle on my nightstand. I do not own a Ouija board — that’s a portal too far for me.

In December, I took some time to jot down my very own “cauldron list.” The idea is that, upon completion, I drop the slip of paper featuring the written task into the cauldron:

Write a short piece of fiction. Some people say you should do something that scares you each day and this one definitely makes my knees quake.

Learn to make sourdough bread. Yes, I’m six years late to this trend, but do you know what never goes out of style? Crusty, carby, sourdough bread. In fact, it’s been around for possibly more than 6,000 years. But, in my house, it only sticks around for a day or two.

Get a colonoscopy. Not nearly as appealing as some of my other items, but necessary. To ease my mind around this one, I just googled “what happens during a colonoscopy” and do not recommend you do the same.

Take Wilder on the challenging hike at Stone Mountain State Park. At just 7, he doesn’t know it, but he’s in training to hit up Yosemite, Yellowstone, Acadia and many more national parks with me and my husband, Chris.

Read Just Kids by Patti Smith. I bought this book five years ago and have yet to crack it open. My own editor even asked me recently if I’d read it. “Well, I own it. Does that count for something?” Nope.

Make an autumnal pilgrimage to Salem, Massachusetts. This trip has been on my mental bucket list for years and it’s time to pay homage to the witches who have gone before me.

And the list goes on — but not too much. The point is to embrace my life, not consume what little free time I already have. A year from now, I hope I can tell you that 2026 was the year that I learned to live each day like it was a new adventure, that my cauldron is full of tiny slips of paper. But if that isn’t the case, perhaps one of my own children will one day unearth my unfinished work and set about putting another drop in the bucket — or another slip in the cauldron, as it may be.

Almanac January 2026

ALMANAC

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January

By Ashley Walshe

January is an ancient remembering; a rush of cold; the crunch, crunch, quiet of naked woods.

This new day, sunlight caressing the frigid earth, inspiration knocks with the clarity of woodpecker drumming against towering pine. Bundled in layers, you lace up your boots, leash up the dog, make for the leaf-littered trail in the open, unobtrusive forest.

Crisp air fills your lungs with a sense of wildness, each breath sharpening your instincts, expanding your horizon, deepening your kinship with the natural world. As dead leaves rustle beneath feet and paws, the wisdom of animal awakens within you. This isn’t just a walk in the wild. It’s a homecoming.

Despite the bleakness of this winter landscape, the sting of the cold, you feel a surge of bold and blissful aliveness. At once, emptiness becomes threshold of infinite possibility. At once, the unseen sings out.

Opossum tracks spell midnight wanderings. A circling hawk graces a vibrant blue sky. Dog presses warm snout to damp earth and listens.

You listen, too, noting the rhythm of your breath, the cadence of your footsteps, the distant crack of hoof upon fallen branch.

Beyond a young beech tree, its pale leaves suspended like a murmuration of ghosts, half a dozen white-tailed deer stand invisible against the sepia backdrop. But here’s the thing: A veil has been lifted; your vision, clarified. You can sense the wild stirrings of these hollow woods. Your breath in the cold is living proof.

Keeping it Real(istic)

The New Year has a way of making us believe that anything is possible — and why not? But we do love to set lofty (read delusional) goals for ourselves, don’t we?

Who thought this was a good idea?

The ancient Babylonians were perhaps the first. Some 4,000 years ago, during their 12-day Akitu festival, “promises to the gods” were made to earn their favor or repay debts. The ancient Romans adopted this ritual to honor Janus (god of beginnings, transitions and time), while early Christians reflected on past transgressions and resolved to “be better” at the start of the bright, new year.

“New Year’s resolutions” entered modern vernacular by the 19th century, becoming a largely secular practice. This year, should you make a promise to yourself, earn your own good favor by breaking large goals into smaller steps. And, whatever your commitment, do it from a place of genuine desire — not just because you think you should.

New Year, New Earth

Suppose we resolved to live in greater harmony with the Earth this new year. Small changes can make a big impact. Below are a few suggestions to deepen your relationship with the natural world and, perhaps, reduce your carbon footprint. Feel free to make your own vow, of course. This is strictly between you and Mama E.

  • Wake up to watch the sunrise
  • Support your local farmers market
  • BYO reusable shopping bags
  • Choose native plants and pollinators for the garden 
  • Ditch bottled water (and single-use plastics) 
  • Visit your local nature preserves 
  • Spend more time barefoot on the earth  
  • Pause to watch more
    sunsets 

Sazerac January 2026

SAZERAC

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Sage Gardener

Each year my wife, Anne, and I combine New Year’s resolutions with the annual barrage of seed catalogs to make our garden plans for the season. This January, we’re resolved to finally grow romanesco, a cultivar of cauliflower that is brilliantly chartreuse and looks like the intergalactic sister of cauliflower and broccoli on LSD. Next on our list is mâche, aka cornsalad or lamb’s lettuce, which crowds the produce section of Spain and France, but is relatively unknown here. Very mild with a slightly nutty note, it was regarded as a weed for years in Europe, so we figure it ought to thrive like all the other weeds that crowd our vegetable beds. Something we have not seen in Spain, despite recent trips to visit our newly sprouted granddaughter, is the black Spanish radish. Reputed to have “an earthy, spicy, bitter and pungent flavor,” and, yes, black on the outside, why wouldn’t we plant them? And we’ve always wanted to try the candy-cane striped Chioggia beets, so this is the year, we’ve decided we’re going to. After all, beets thrive in our soil. Salsify, radicchio and cucamelons are on our list, the latter described by epicgardening.com’s “27 Unusual and Rare Vegetables to Grow This Season” as “adorable grape-sized fruits that look like baby watermelons and taste like tart cucumbers.” Aaaaaw. Who doesn’t like a cute vegetable?

In the way of past successes with out-of-the-ordinary veggies, Anne and I recommend planting goober peas — can you say boiled peanuts? Sea Island field peas were both a culinary and gardening success and, like peanuts, they’re great at crowding out weeds as a ground cover. Another import from Spain is the Canary melon. Oval and yellow, it has a creamy texture, with a sweet, slightly musky taste. We’ve also had great success with purple green beans, which garnered comments from our neighbors, such as “Well, I never.”

In the “Don’t Plant” category, we would list heritage okra, the seeds of which we got from Old Salem, but which had the texture of a canine chew toy. Not even our dog would eat it. Malabar spinach goes gangbusters, is hearty and resists pests, but maybe that’s because of its taste, which reminded me of various inedible plants I tried as a kid. Jerusalem artichokes are fun, but be careful. Yes, you can eat them like potatoes, but they are definitely a moveable feast; and, if you let them, they’ll take over your entire garden. I should add to our long list of flops — celeriac, which we tried again and again, but never got beyond seedlings. Parsnips, kohlrabi and rutabagas have all fizzled for us, but maybe that’s the weather, our soil or the Sage Gardener’s lack of sagacity. We’ve always wanted to grow rhubarb, but decided not to after a yankee in our community garden repeatedly tried with limited success.

On my personal gardener’s bucket list? Dragon fruit. Also corn smut, which only visited my corn once, but I didn’t get around to cooking it before it grew so smutty it looked X-rated. I’ve also dreamed of growing the vaunted corpse flower. And while we’re on the subject of mutability, how about a century plant, which is monocarpic, meaning it only flowers at the very end of its long life, which is more like 10–30 years rather than 100. Granted, at 78, what are the odds of my seeing it bloom? But nothing ventured, nothing grown. — David Claude Bailey

Window on the Past

Born and raised in Greensboro, Olympic speed skating champion Joey Cheek is seen here celebrating his 2006 Winter Olympic gold medal win at a luncheon held that March at the Greensboro Coliseum. Cheek, who had trained for this moment since he was a child and had won three bronze medals prior, skated his way into history and, this year, marks the 20th anniversary of his victory.

Just One Thing

“So, I got out there that first day and took a bunch of pictures and was going like, ‘Whoa, there it is. I can see it.’” David Brown, a photographer native to Greensboro, talks about his experience with switching from film photography to digital photography, which produced this landscape photograph he titled The Red Barn. “I packed up all my 4×5 cameras, my film cameras and my Nikon digital and headed out,” he said. Brown, an avid fan of scenic landscapes, thought it’d be a great idea to start shooting them, which gave him the idea to haul his gear to the northernmost portion of the U.S. “I went up to Minnesota, then across the Northern Plains and then down to the Rockies and down to the Southwest, Arizona and all the rest of it.” Now, if you ask Brown where in the eastern slope of the Rockies he was when he captured this scene, he wouldn’t be able to tell you. But, what he could tell you is that switching to digital cameras changed the way he viewed photography forever. Getting to experience the Northern High Plains was just the icing on top. This photo and more of Brown’s work will be premiered at the Revolution Mill’s Central Gallery, Jan. 2–March 27, with a reception from 5–7 p.m., Saturday, Jan. 17. “That’s the whole genesis of the Central Gallery thing, I was cranking these things out. It was saving my sanity at a time of social turmoil and gave me something to focus on, no pun intended.”  — Joi Floyd

Unsolicited Advice

While you create your New Year’s resolutions and start to consider which habits should stay and which should go, don’t forget to add hot tea instead of coffee to the list. Overrated and overconsumed, coffee is out and a fresh cuppa is in. This year, we’re rewinding the times and replacing coffee breath with health benefits, such as lower blood pressure and easier digestion. There’s nothing like waking up early in the morning, slowly sipping your steaming Earl Grey before crying kids, unpacked lunch boxes and the school bus that you’ve almost missed four times this year jolt you awake. But this new habit? You’ve got it in the bag — and here are just a few of its benefits.

Oolong (Wūlóng) Tea: Aside from the fact that the name is fun to say — and not to be confused with Wu-Tang — this tea flaunts strong antioxidant properties. You’re sure to beat any cold that comes fighting your way, hence the Wu-Tang confusion.

Green Tea: Whether you prefer it brewed hot or ice cold, green tea is a great swap for that, er, steep matcha. With lower calories and caffeine concentration, it’ll leave those matcha mavens green with envy. 

Herbal Tea: If you’re tired of having that heavy, bloated feeling every time you eat breakfast, this may be the tea for you as it aids digestion. It also comes in more flavor varieties than December’s candy canes, including peppermint. But, sorry, not including Skittles.

Masala Chai Tea: With a black tea base, masala chai tea improves heart health while serving up warmer, spicier vibes than a gingerbread latte. You know what they say — a cup of masala chai tea a day, keeps the coffee breath away!

A Perfect Obituary

Several years ago, following the tragic death of Thomas Merton, I experienced what seemed to me to be a perfect obituary. I was reading Armindo Trevisan’s poem, Elegy for Thomas Merton, and one line brought me to a great pause: “He found you at supper, the bread already broken and your bones aflame with wine.”

Merton was a monk and mystic, well known through his books, other writings and stories from his life at a Trappist monastery, Abbey of Our Lady of Gethsemani, in Kentucky. Trevisan, a Brazilian theologian and poet, must have read deeply Merton’s writings.

It is Trevisan’s profound affirmation of Merton’s eucharistic life that continues to grip me. I wonder if Merton experienced an epiphanic moment in his life like I did as a 16-year-old attending a Maundy Thursday service at St. Stephen’s Episcopal Church in Richmond, Virginia. I suspect that is when my yearning for eucharist in my spiritual journey took root. For several years now, weekly Wednesday evenings receiving the consecrated elements of bread and wine in All Saints Chapel at Holy Trinity Episcopal Church’s Stillpoint service has nourished that eucharistic hunger. I do not want to be anyplace else.

Those 15 words, beginning with “He found you at supper,” that brought me to a gasp propelled me to my dear friend, Sally Gant, who often used her talent as a calligrapher to take words that set my heart soaring and craft them into an even greater thing of beauty. I have a file full of them! One day when I join Merton and Trevisan in that great cloud of witnesses who watch us run our race, we will share the joy that Sally’s artwork brought us.

    — David C. Partington