Poem November 2024

POEM NOVEMBER 2024

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November 2024

Great Blue Heron

He looked like an old man hunkered down
in a faded blue overcoat, his collar turned up,
shoulders hunched. He didn’t seem bothered

by the shallow water his feet were covered

by, nor the chill winter air blowing around
his bare pate. But then his narrow head rose

like a periscope, higher and higher — swiveled
in the direction of a hardly perceptible splash.

Slowly, he moved toward the sound on legs
as skinny as walking sticks, to the place where
dinner was served and eaten so fast, any cook

would wonder if he tasted it. It was enough,
however, to restore his quiet contemplations.

Hunger sated, he curled his long neck into its
warm collar, and stood as still as a painting

while the sun sank and the snow moon kept

rising like a white balloon over the darkening
lake, the stark tree branches, and a lone heron
blending, bit by bit, into the blue light of dusk.

Terri Kirby Erickson

The Family Meal

THE FAMILY MEAL

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November 2024

The Family Meal

Gather ’round the table and serve up one of Greensboro’s global chefs’ favorite dishes

By Cassie Bustamante   •   Photographs by Amy Freeman

In the spirit of celebratory feasts, we asked four local chefs — whose roots lie elsewhere around the world — to share a dish that’s a favorite around their own family tables. With so much to be grateful for in the Gate City, our bellies are especially thankful for the rich diversity of world-class hospitality and global fare available without having to travel far.

Jorge Castillo and daughter Jennifer, Embur Fire Fusion

“Food is a symphony,” says Embur chef-owner Jorge Castillo. “Everything that is in the dish, you have to put together in order to feel that.” Castillo, who trained at the Culinary Institute of America’s New York campus, originally hails from the Peruvian coast, where fresh seafood is abundant. “You ever sit with Peruvian people?” he asks. “They eat!” And much of what they eat is a Japanese-Peruvian fusion cuisine known as Nikkei. His youngest daughter, Jennifer, who is working with her father until she attends law school next year, notes that Peru is home to a large number of Japanese immigrants who have influenced the culture. This dish, homemade Peruvian Nikkei-style fish, is a blend of veggies — snow peas, zucchini, peppers, Napa cabbage and bean sprouts — paired with fish and rice. When the smell of Castillo’s homemade sweet-and-sour sauce bristling with fresh spices tickles her nose, Jennifer says, “Oh, there’s about to be a big ol’ feast here!”

Homemade Peruvian
Nikkei-Style Fish for Two

12-ounces white fish fillet
(Chef Jorge recommends grouper) 

3/4–1 cup broccoli, chopped

1/2 cup cauliflower, chopped

1/2 cup green beans (cut into thirds) 

1/2 cup snow peas

1 green bell pepper, chopped

1 red bell pepper, chopped

2 cups Napa cabbage, chopped into small pieces

1 handful of bean sprouts

1 teaspoon fresh minced ginger, divided

1 teaspoon minced garlic, divided 

1 tablespoon oyster sauce, plus more for drizzling

1/2 tablespoon soy sauce, plus more for drizzling

1–1 1/2 tablespoons olive oil, plus more for drizzling

1 teaspoon sweet and sour sauce 

1 teaspoon sesame oil 

Salt and pepper, to taste 

Red chili flakes, to taste

1 cup any choice of cooked rice (white rice preferably), divided into two servings

Directions: 

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees Fahrenheit. 

Bring a large pot of lightly salted water to a boil. Once the water has started boiling, add the broccoli and cauliflower and cook for about two minutes. (If using green beans instead of snow peas, boil them now as well). Then remove the broccoli and cauliflower, place into an ice water bath and set aside. After a few minutes, drain the water. Cut the 12-ounce fish fillet into two pieces. Place in a bowl and add salt, pepper, 1/2 teaspoon of minced ginger and 1/2 teaspoon of garlic. Drizzle equal parts of soy sauce and oyster sauce, and then add olive oil. 

Heat a large nonstick pan over medium heat. Place the seasoned fish on the pan. Cook until lightly golden-brown on one side, about two minutes. Turn the fish over and repeat to the other side. Place the fish in a baking dish or keep in oven-safe pan.

In the preheated oven, bake the fish in the oven for about five minutes. (Time can vary depending on fish used, but the internal temperature should be 135 degrees Fahrenheit). 

Meanwhile, in a separate pan, heat about 1–1 1/2 tablespoons of olive oil in a large pan over high heat. Add the bell peppers and snow peas (or prepared green beans if used). Sauté for 30–45 seconds and then add 1/2 teaspoon of minced garlic. 

Once the garlic is lightly golden, add the cauliflower, broccoli, Napa cabbage and bean sprouts to the pan with the bell peppers and snow peas/greens beans. Sauté for another minute.

Add 1 tablespoon oyster sauce and 1/2 tablespoon soy sauce to the vegetables and toss together. 

Remove the pan from heat. Add sweet and sour sauce, sesame oil and red chili flakes. Toss and set aside. 

Divide fish among two plates, top it with the vegetables and serve with choice of rice.

Ginah & Mike Soufia, Wallstreet Deli & Catering

“My sister-in-law, who is American, calls this purple chicken,” says Ginah Soufia. A first-generation Palestinian American, Gina has owned Wallstreet Deli & Catering for 26 years with her Palestinian-born husband, Mike. “The aroma . . .  it takes me back to my childhood,” she says, recalling the scent of sizzling, sumac-infused onions and golden-toasted pine nuts that drifted through the modest three-bedroom home. The table was always loaded with food and family — three generations living under one roof. To this day, she believes in setting a longer table to make room for others. “The great thing about the Palestinian culture is our hospitality — it is unmatched.” Musakhan, the national dish of Palestine, is often prepared at home by Ginah, with Mike — “the baker” — making the flatbread, Taboon, which sops up the flavor. What tradition does she hope to pass on to her own three grown children? “I want my kids to know that no matter what, your family will be there for you,” she says. “No matter what, your family is your family.”

Musakhan

Without chicken:

8 large red onions, medium-chopped

2 cups extra virgin olive oil

Chicken bouillon powder, to taste

1/3 cup good-quality sumac (a bright-red spice made from ground dried sumac berries), plus more for sprinkling

6 Taboon or plain naan bread pieces

Pine nuts, fried or roasted

With chicken (same as above, plus):

3 small chickens

1/4 cup olive oil

1 tablespoon sumac

1 tablespoon seven spices

1 tablespoon ground coriander

1 tablespoon garlic powder

2 tablespoons salt

Without chicken:

Heat olive oil over low heat. Add onions to pan and sauté. Keep mixing until the onions become soft, have a bright pink color to them and have released all their water.

Continue to mix and add bouillon powder and sumac.

Spread onion mixture on each piece of bread and sprinkle with pine nuts and a little more sumac. Repeat and layer as you go, creating a stack.

With chicken:

Preheat oven to 450 degrees Fahrenheit.

Cut each chicken into either two halves or four pieces. Pat dry with paper towel.

Mix the olive oil and spices in a small bowl then brush on chicken from all sides. Place on a baking sheet lined with parchment paper, allowing room between each piece of chicken.

Cover with aluminum foil and bake for about one hour, then uncover and bake an additional 5–10 minutes until the skin is crispy and golden-brown.

Follow steps 1–3 from the vegetarian version above. Layer as many pieces of bread and onion mixture as you’d like, followed by a piece of chicken on top. For a single serving, one piece of bread topped with onions and one piece of chicken is recommended.

Joseph Ozbey, Cugino Forno

Born and raised in Turkey, Cugino Forno Pizzeria co-owner Joseph Ozbey has fond recollections of family meals centered around Lahmacun, aka Turkish pizza. “Every time I have this dish, it reminds me of our Sundays when I was a little kid.” Armed with the toppings his mother had prepared and some pocket change, Ozbey would go to the local baker, who would put the topping on crusts and bake. When Ozbey returned home with the fragrant, steaming Lahmacun, the table would be prepared — with salads, herbs, tomatoes, yogurt drinks — and the family would eat together. Soon, God willing, he will have a few of his own little ones sitting around the family table and he can share the rich history of his Turkish heritage. “Even a simple dish,” he says, “reminds you of your culture, reminds you of your roots.”

Lahmacun (Turkish Pizza)

Makes six 10-inch pizzas

For the crust:

2 cups all-purpose flour

2 teaspoons kosher salt

1 1/2 teaspoons cane sugar

2 teaspoons dried instant yeast

1 2/3 cups water

For the topping:

1/3 cup small red bell pepper

1/2 cup onion

1/3 cup parsley

2 cloves garlic

1 teaspoon dried oregano

1/2 teaspoon dried mint

1 teaspoon cumin

1/4 teaspoon black pepper

2 tablespoons Turkish red pepper paste (can substitute tomato paste with a dash of hot sauce)

1/2 pound ground beef

For the crust:

Combine all of the dry ingredients in a large mixing bowl. Whisk together.

Add the water and fold and mix until a ball of dough forms. Allow to rise for about one hour.

Transfer the dough to a floured surface. Cut the dough into six even pieces. Shape each piece by hand and then use a rolling pin to create a thin circular shape. (Add additional flour to the surface, to your hands and to the rolling pin when necessary.)

For the topping:

Fine-dice the red peppers and onion, mince the garlic and finely chop the parsley. Aim for tiny pieces of everything — the tinier, the better. Add the chopped and minced ingredients, the rest of the seasonings and the red pepper paste to the ground beef. Massage and mix with your hands for no less than five minutes,

Evenly spread the meat mixture on your prepared crusts. Bake for 20–25 minutes in an oven preheated to 350 degrees Fahrenheit.

Aurelio Ruiz and daughter Alondra Ruiz Fowler,
Kiosco Mexican Grill

“Every tamale is different,” says 25-year-old Alondra Ruiz Fowler, eldest daughter of Kiosco owner and chef Aurelio Ruiz. “Every family makes them differently.” Her own grandmother, who lived with them when Fowler was a child, still, to this day, insists on thoroughly mixing the masa dough by hand. “I am never fast enough to do it,” Fowler admits. As for the accompanying chili sauce, she says that Mexicans make their own by burning the chilis, releasing a come-hither-if-you-like-spicy aroma throughout the home. “The worse my throat hurts, the hotter it’s going to be,” she says with a laugh. This dish, a tradition at big get-togethers, is one that Fowler hopes to keep alive for future generations. As for the restaurant, her dad talks about one day passing that on, too. “But he’s a workaholic, so he’s going to be here until he can’t walk anymore!” Either way, Fowler says she can’t ever imagine the 35-year-old restaurant not being there. Just another part of the family legacy..

Tamales

Corn

1 pack of corn husks 

Masa

1 cup manteca (lard)

1 teaspoon baking powder 

Salt to taste 

5-pounds “masa para tamales” (pre-packaged dough found at local Mexican markets)

1 cup of broth from cooked meat 

Chicken 

1 1/2 pound chicken breast, cut into cubes 

1/2 white onion, peeled

2 1/2 cloves garlic, peeled 

1 teaspoon ground cumin 

1 teaspoon kosher salt 

1 teaspoon chicken bouillon 

1/4 teaspoon ground black pepper 

Chile Sauce 

3 ancho chiles* 

3 guajillo chiles* 

2 tablespoons plus 1 teaspoon manteca

2 1/2 cloves garlic, peeled 

1/2 teaspoon kosher salt 

1 teaspoon chicken bouillon 

1/2 teaspoon ground cumin 

1/4 teaspoon black pepper 

*Remove chile seeds to tone down the spiciness

Directions: 

Husks: Soak husks in a large bowl with hot water while cooking, ensuring they stay completely immersed for about 75 minutes. Dry thoroughly after soaking.

Chicken: Place chicken in a pot of water to boil. Add white onion, garlic, ground cumin, kosher salt, chicken bouillon and ground black pepper. Allow the pot to boil, then simmer for 75 minutes. Throughout this process, remove the foam that rises to the top of the pot. Once the chicken is cool, shred it all and place in a bowl, removing the bones. Reserve one cup of broth for Masa step. If using a different part of the chicken, shred and remove all the bones prior to assembling tamale. 

Chile Sauce: In a pan, fry the chile and garlic in 2 tablespoons manteca for about three minutes. Once fried, add chiles to a pot of 1 1/2 cups of boiling water. Allow the chiles to boil for about 10–15 minutes. After 15 minutes, remove chiles plus a cup of the boiling water used and add to a blender. Add seasonings and blend until mixture reaches a paste consistency. Fry mixture in a pan with 1 teaspoon of manteca over medium heat. Add about 1 cup of water and allow it to simmer for about 20 minutes until thick. Be careful not to burn the sauce during this step. Once thick, add to the bowl of shredded chicken and combine. 

Masa: In a large, clean, open counter space, mix the manteca and baking powder together. Once mixed, add half of the amount of salt. As you are consistently kneading the mix, add your Masa. Do not add Masa all at once. Add it in parts. Continuously kneading the mixture, work in the one cup of chicken broth. Add remaining salt and mix. Taste Masa and add salt if needed at this step. 

Assemble Tamales: Using a dry corn husk, spread about 3–4 tablespoons of the masa on the smooth part of the husk. You want to make about a 3 x 3 inch square that leaves about 1/2 of an inch at the bottom of the husk. Once your masa is spread on husk, put about 2–3 spoonfuls of the chicken and sauce mixture in the middle of the masa. Fold one long side of the corn husk, then fold the other long side over top. Finally, fold the bottom of the corn husk upward. You can secure the tamale by placing the folding side of the tamale downwards in the steaming pot in the next step or you can shred an unused corn husk into pieces to use as string, tying a knot over the tamale. 

Cooking Tamales: Using a stockpot with water in it and a steamer on top, distribute the tamales evenly and upright. The water should be low enough where the steamer basket can be inserted without touching the water. You want to place your tamales in the steamer basket upright where the tamale is exposed. Once you have evenly spread the tamales in the steamer basket, cover the pot and let it steam on medium for about 75 to 90 minutes. Water may need to be added periodically, depending on the depth; always make sure it is not touching the steamer basket. Once you can see that the corn husks are easily removed, your tamales are fully cooked. 

Serving: Remove the corn husk from cooked tamale and place on a plate. Garnish with shredded lettuce, chopped tomato, sour cream and a crumble of queso fresco. Take a bite and enjoy a delicious taste of a traditional Mexican meal! 

Life’s Funny

LIFE'S FUNNY

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November 2024

Out of Our Gourds

Recognizing post-traumatic pumpkin-spice disorder

By Maria Johnson

I stopped at the snack display just inside the grocery store’s sliding doors.

A bank of pillowy bags promised pumpkin pie-flavored popcorn.

As my brain mulled the mingling of those flavors, a store clerk walked past me.

“I don’t know about that,” he muttered under his breath.

He was right.

There was no reason to buy that bag when I had a jar of popcorn kernels, a stick of butter, a bottle of pumpkin pie spice and a bag of brown sugar at home. Smooth, sweet, salty, warm.

I would be making pumpkin-spiced popcorn soon.

A couple of decades ago, it wouldn’t have occurred to me.

That was before America jumped on the pumpkin-spice-latte train.

It began innocently enough, in 2003, in the Liquid Lab, a corner of Starbucks headquarters in Seattle. Charged with creating a new coffee drink, employees focused on a customer survey in which pumpkin kept popping up as a unique flavor.

So they did the natural thing: They spent hours eating pumpkin pie, sipping espresso and wondering how they ever landed such a cushy gig.

Eventually, they fused the flavors into one autumnal concoction and jotted down the recipe: espresso, steamed milk and pumpkin pie spices — basically cinnamon, nutmeg and ginger.

They called their invention Pumpkin Spice Latte, or PSL, and tested it in 100 stores in Washington, D.C., and Vancouver, Canada.

Customers on both coasts slurped it up, and Starbucks rolled out the PSL to a toasty reception nationwide, but it wasn’t until Facebook and Twitter took off in 2006 that PSL found its wings.

Ever since then, from September through November, we’ve been bonkers for pumpkin-spiced anything.

I didn’t realize just how much we’d normalized the gourd until I tootled down the aisles of Trader Joe’s last year and noted the following items:

Pumpkin ice cream.

Spicy pumpkin samosas.

Pumpkin-ginger scones.

Pumpkin waffles (“Try them with our pumpkin butter!’).

Pumpkin tortilla chips.

Pumpkin salsa.

Pecan-pumpkin oatmeal.

Pumpkin O’s breakfast cereal.

Pumpkin spiced bagels.

Pumpkin cream cheese.

Pumpkin hummus.

I clung to the vine, following it around the store, hoping it would lead me out of the orange storm. Which it did. But not before …

Apple-and-pumpkin hand pies.

Pumpkin brioche.

Pumpkin-maple-bacon dog treats.

Pumpkin pancake mix.

Teeny-tiny pumpkin-spiced pretzels.

Pumpkin oat beverage.

Pasta sauce with pumpkin and butternut squash.

Pumpkin cider.

Pumpkin ale.

Pumpkin ravioli.

Pumpkin gnocchi.

Chocolate mousse pumpkin candies.

Pumpkin-spice cookie batons.

Pumpkin Joe-Joe’s (a version of the Oreos knockoffs).

Pumpkin kringles (No worries, Santa. They’re coffee cake rings).

Pumpkin bisque.

And last but not least, pumpkin body butter, for skin as soft as a … jack-o-lantern?

Good grief! I hadn’t been so spiced out since I binge-burned a pack of patchouli incense as a young woman. The effect was intense, transcendent and lasting, meaning I never got the smell of hippie-fied tranquility out of my curtains.

What accounted for the persistent appeal of pumpkin spice? Was there any taste trend that could compete?

I called Michael Oden, the marketing manager over at Mother Murphy’s, a family-owned Greensboro company that ships food and beverage flavorings to 30 countries. Their products include pumpkin-spice flavorings for beer and liquor.

Michael is sanguine about the state of the squash.

“Pumpkin spice will always be here,” he says, explaining that the taste’s popularity rests on cultural conditioning. Once people associate certain flavors with holidays, they try more versions, which drives more products to shelves, which reinforces the link.

Call it a flavor loop. Or a Pumpkin O, if you like.

Hybrids are bound to develop, Michael says, citing the pumpkin-allied flavors of apple, caramel, maple and cranberry.

In the last few years, another flavor fusion — “sweet heat” or “swicy” — has brought us jalapeño spiked honey, ancho chili pecan pie, strawberry tarts with black pepper, cayenne-chocolate cookies and ice cream set ablaze with gochujang, Korean chili paste.

Michael expects pumpkin spice and Cousin Swicy to inhabit the American palate for at least another five years.

The trick, he says, is for tastemakers to keep their offerings seasonal and to keep the intensity of their flavorings proportionate to their serving sizes.

“There are things that become too much,” he says tactfully.

I thought of this a few weeks ago when I made pumpkin-spiced popcorn at home. We were about to stream a movie when I pulled the Orville Redenbacher out of the pantry.

“Cover your eyes, Orville,” I said, pouring kernels into the well of the hot-air popper.

I melted butter, stirred in the sugar and spice, then drizzled the glaze over fresh popcorn and pressed “play” on the original Beetlejuice from 1988.

Somehow, we missed the multiplex mania back then and decided to revisit the phenomenon as a possible precursor to seeing the recently-released reprise, Beetlejuice Beetlejuice.

The original story was kinda fun. And pretty stupid. And very much a creature of its time.

I mean, Robert Goulet. Need I say more?

Oddly enough, our impression of my homemade pumpkin-spiced popcorn followed a similar pathway, progressing quickly from mmm to meh to OMG, please make it stop.

We set our bowls aside and hit pause.

Whether it’s patchouli or pumpkin spice or a prison-striped pest from the Great Beyond, I’m here to tell you — three times if necessary — that a little goes a long way.

Almanac November

ALMANAC NOVEMBER 2024

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November 2024

Almanac November 2024

By Jim Dodson

Generations of Americans who were schoolchildren during the Ozzie and Harriet years from the 1950s through 1960s have keen memories of singing an ancient hymn long associated with Thanksgiving titled “We Gather Together.” In fact, the hymn had nothing to do with the mythologized first Thanksgiving held by the Pilgrims in November 1621. Based on a Dutch folk tune, the hymn was written in 1597 to celebrate the Dutch victory over the Spanish forces at the Battle of Turnhout. Prior to that, Dutch protestants were forbidden to gather for religious observances. It first appeared in American hymnals around 1903 and rapidly gained popularity as the Thanksgiving hymn sung at church services and in public schools during the week of the November holiday. In 1992, comedian Adam Sandler performed his own mocking version of the holiday standard on Saturday Night Live that more or less coincided with “We Gather Together” being removed forever from public schools and gatherings. The hymn is still a staple in churches across America at Thanksgiving.

The holiday itself has something of a checkered and violent history. The highly mythologized account of the first Thanksgiving “harvest feast” shared by English Pilgrims and the Wampanoag people in 1621 generally ignores the fact that disease brought by the colonists to North America wiped out 90 percent of New England’s native populations. Following a major Patriot victory in the Revolutionary War, George Washington proclaimed the first nationwide Thanksgiving celebration in America, marking Nov. 26, 1789, “as a day of public thanksgiving and prayer.” He was then upstaged by Abraham Lincoln 74 years later, who formally established the national holiday when he issued a proclamation for a National Day of Thanksgiving in October 1863, following the Battle of Gettysburg, in which 50,000 soldiers died. In 1939, Franklin Roosevelt moved the Thanksgiving holiday one week earlier than normal to the second-to-last Thursday in November, believing that doing so would help bolster retail sales during the final years of the Great Depression. 

Regardless of these inconvenient truths — and Adam Sandler’s buffoonery — the overwhelming majority of us in a wonderfully diverse America embrace Thanksgiving as a welcome opportunity to gather with family and friends and celebrate however we see fit with food, football and a nice afternoon nap.

“Let us give thanks for this beautiful day.
Let us give thanks for this life. Let us give thanks for the water without which
life would not be possible.
Let us give thanks for Grandmother Earth,
who protects and nourishes us.”

— Traditional daily prayer of the American Lakota people

When the Year Grows Old

By Edna St. Vincent Millay

I cannot but remember
When the year grows old —
October — November —
How she disliked the cold!

She used to watch the swallows
Go down across the sky,
And turn from the window
With a little sharp sigh.

And often when the brown leaves
Were brittle on the ground,
And the wind in the chimney
Made a melancholy sound,

She had a look about her
That I wish I could forget —
The look of a scared thing
Sitting in a net!

Oh, beautiful at nightfall
The soft spitting snow!
And beautiful the bare boughs
Rubbing to and fro!

But the roaring of the fire,
And the warmth of fur,
And the boiling of the kettle
Were beautiful to her!

I cannot but remember
When the year grows old —
October — November —
How she disliked the cold!

Chaos Theory

CHAOS THEORY

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November 2024

Speaking of Traditions...

There’s no place like Greensboro

By Cassie Bustamante

In the age of streamable television and movies, some of my favorite childhood traditions have become a thing of the ’80s past: Saturday morning cartoons, singing commercial jingles on repeat with my brother — Who’s that kid with the Oreo cookie? — and annual movie marathons. Thanks to it being my father’s favorite festive film, our family always watched A Christmas Story during its 24-hour run on TNT. And for the longest time, the 1939 film The Wizard of Oz was an American Thanksgiving tradition more sacred than green bean casserole.

While I’m thrilled my three kids will never know the horror of “bagel bangs” and double-layered neon socks, it saddens me that some of these timeless treasures weren’t so timeless after all. But when we moved to Greensboro almost six years ago, I discovered that our little Emerald City had a November tradition of its own: the Community Theatre of Greensboro’s annual production of The Wizard of Oz.

Last year, our family, minus Sawyer, the oldest — an actual adult who claims musicals aren’t “his thing” — decided to partake in this community custom.

The day before our ticketed show, a Sunday matinee, 5-year-old Wilder and I are in the kitchen with roasted-potato-and-fennel soup simmering on the stovetop. Meanwhile, Chris, my husband, busies himself outside with leaf cleanup. “Alexa, play ‘Ding-Dong the Witch is Dead’ from The Wizard of Oz,” I command.

She does as told. (Modern technology can be a good thing, too!) The melody, paired with squeaky, studio-altered munchkin voices, echoes throughout the kitchen. Wilder moves his little body to the music, but stops for a moment. A dimpled hand shoots to his mouth as he giggles at the chipmunk-esque sounds emanating from the speaker. After that song, Alexa continues with other tunes from the “Merry Old Land of Oz,” but Wilder is not into hearing what Dorothy or Glinda have to say. Nope, he only wants the music of his new fav singing group: The Munchkins.

The next morning, he wakes and asks immediately, “Is today the day? Are we going to The Wizard of Oz?” As the day progresses, the question becomes, “How many more minutes?”

Finally, it’s almost showtime. We park downtown and skip to the Carolina Theatre, where families pile in. I see little girls dressed up as Dorothy and sparkling shoes on feet of all sizes. I’ve donned my black “Bad Witch” sweater as a nod to poor, misunderstood Elphaba. (Hey, I’ve seen Wicked, too!) Wilder, meanwhile, wears his ruby red Nikes.

We find our seats in the center of the balcony. Wilder struggles to see, but doesn’t care for the feel of the plastic booster seat. I’m already a little concerned the show won’t hold his attention and now I’m worried he’ll be uncomfortable, too. “Do you want to sit on my lap?” I offer.

He snuggles in and anxiously awaits the start of the show. The music begins, the curtain opens and we see Dorothy and Toto — and yes, a real dog is cast in the role!

Wilder sits on the edge of his seat, aka my knees. He’s utterly enthralled. Next to me, my daughter, Emmy, and I exchange occasional smiling glances. Almost three hours pass and not once has he taken his eyes off the stage — minus an intermission potty break — unless it’s been to hide his face from the Wicked Witch of the West and her entourage of flying monkeys.

I’m hot and sweaty, regretting the wool sweater I’ve worn, unaware that I’d be holding a human-sized space heater in my lap throughout the show, but I don’t care. Like those traditions I once thought timeless, these moments of borderline uncomfortable — but golden — closeness will similarly prove fleeting.

At the final curtain call, Wilder stands and cheers, whooping and hollering for the cast, especially the Tin Man. The Community Theatre’s executive director enters the stage to make some closing announcements, but our family takes that opportunity to beeline for the door before the crowd pours out. We can still hear her voice outside the theatre when she reminds the audience about next summer’s production of The Lion King Jr.

With his clammy little hand in mine, I drag Wilder hurriedly behind me, trying to catch up with Chris and Emmy. “Wait! Wait!” he shouts. “Can we see The Lion King?”

And just like that, it seems that a new-to-us tradition is born: Community Theatre productions.

“Of course we can,” I answer. While I am a parent who admittedly relies on YouTube and other digitally created content to entertain my children so I can accomplish tasks — or find a moment of peace, even — nothing can compare to the experience of real humans singing and dancing right in front of you. And while I don’t know how long his love of live theater will last, I plan to enjoy it while I can. Because this is the stuff of his own childhood memories.

Omnivorous Reader

OMNIVOROUS READER

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November 2024

After the Amber

A novel of disappearance and guilt

By Stephen E. Smith

A startling buzzing blasts from your phone or TV, followed by a high-pitched whine, and a detailed description of a missing child inching across the screen. It’s an active Amber alert — a child abduction emergency. We experience these alerts too often, but we rarely learn what becomes of the missing child or how such a disappearance affects the child’s family, friends and the community in which the child lives.

Marybeth Mayhew Whalen’s 10th novel, Every Moment Since, is a fictional exploration of the emotional forces that wear on those who knew and loved 11-year-old Davy Malcor, who went missing for over two decades. The narrative opens with an early morning phone call informing Sheriff Lancaster that Davy’s favorite jacket was found in an abandoned building near the small North Carolina town of Wynotte. The burden of Davy’s disappearance is still very much in the public consciousness, fixed there by a bestselling memoir written by Davy’s older brother, Thaddeus, who had been responsible for watching over Davy on the night he vanished. On that tragic evening, Davy’s parents were attending a cocktail party, and Thaddeus ditched Davy so he could drink beer with his buddies. Davy wandered in the darkness with a mysterious new friend until headlights flickered through the neighborhood and Davy was gone. What happened that night transformed the characters’ lives and, years later, one question haunts them all: What might I have done differently?

Whalen has provided an intriguing cast of characters. Tabitha, Davy’s mother, is divorced (a byproduct of her son’s disappearance) and lives alone in the house where Davy was raised. She devotes her time to advocating for the families of missing children. Thaddeus is profiting from his family’s misfortune with a bestselling memoir. Aniss Weaver, the last person to see Davy alive, works as a public information officer for the local police. Gordon Swift, a local sculptor, is the prime suspect in Davy’s disappearance, although there has never been adequate evidence to bring charges against him. We have all the ingredients for a suspenseful mystery.

But Every Moment Since isn’t your typical whodunnit. The plot is a trifle too straightforward: a boy goes missing, his family suffers, the community agonizes, a body is eventually found, and the mystery, albeit a slight one, is solved. There are too few plot twists or complications in the early stages of the narrative, and much of the expository information in the first 180 pages of the 363-page novel focuses on the minutia of the characters’ day-to-day lives. Throughout the story, there is a nagging need to “bring on the bear.”

Whalen’s focus, the moving force in the novel, is guilt, which the characters suffer to various degrees. Tabitha rebukes herself for having left Davy in Thaddeus’ care so she could spend an evening socializing. Aniss Weaver is troubled by her specific knowledge that Thaddeus is blameless. And Thaddeus, more than any of the characters, is troubled by the financial success of his memoir about his brother’s disappearance. Gordon Swift, although innocent, suffers from doubts about his sexuality and the community’s suspicion that focuses on him as the likely culprit.

Whalen employs various third-person points of view that are not arranged chronologically (think Pulp Fiction). And the chapters range from excerpts taken from Thaddeus’ memoir to Tabitha’s daily bouts of regret to pure narrative segments that nudge the story forward. Even Davy, who has long since disappeared from the immediate action, has a third-person limited view in parts of the novel.

If this sounds like a lot to keep straight, it is, and the reader is required to focus his or her attention on what is happening to whom and when. The only question that needs answering is why the narrative is presented in this disjointed fashion, which becomes apparent in the novel’s final chapters.

The reader might reasonably conclude that the novel was written with the audiobook in mind (available as a digital download through Kindle). Chapters featuring the various personas written in the limited third person achieve degrees of separation and distinction when read by voice actors representing the various characters. For example, book chapters about Tabitha contain too few distinctive hooks that the reader can employ to establish an ongoing connection with the character, and one’s attention must remain fixed on who is doing what and when. Read aloud, the connection is immediate and continuous.

Every Moment Since is not recommended for anyone suffering from ADHD or for casual readers who will likely put the novel aside for days and expect to pick up the narrative line without rereading. The shifting points of view will not detract from the novel’s impact if the reader remains focused.

Whalen creates believable characters and has a true talent for dialogue — and she is to be congratulated for taking on a challenging and complex subject. The disappearance of a child is a horrifying possibility for any parent, and the crippling emotions suffered by a family that has experienced such a loss are almost inconceivable. Every Moment Since is a reminder that we should take careful notice of the Amber alerts that come blaring across our TVs and phones. They aren’t works of fiction.

Pleasures of Life Dept.

PLEASURES OF LIFE DEPT.

Home
November 2024

The Checkout Counter

The sale — and whopper — of the century

Memoir by Kay Cheshire

Note from the editor: This story won third place in our 2023 O. Henry Essay Contest

Long before online shopping was invented, everyone relied on newspaper ads for sales. Many years ago, a week before Christmas, one of our city’s large department stores advertised Christmas china and accessories for sale, and when the ads came out, so did the shoppers.

The china department was crowded with last minute bargain hunters admiring mugs with reindeer handles, Santa cookie jars and star-shaped serving platters. I found the perfect red bowl, decorated with snowflakes for my Christmas buffet, and joined the long checkout line. There was only one salesclerk, a young woman, doing her best to keep the line moving.

While waiting, I chatted with the women in front of and behind me in line. We discussed the weather, what toys kids wanted and how the holidays came faster and faster each year. I complimented the well-dressed woman in front of me on her beautiful green wool suit.

“I only wear it during the holidays. It’s so old,” she said, laughing.

As we inched our way to the checkout counter, more and more customers joined the already long line, now quite long. I wondered why the store hadn’t hired more people to help.

When only one woman was ahead of my new friend in the green suit, an older women in a mink coat with plaster-sprayed hair barged in front of her and asked the salesgirl, “Do you have more reindeer mugs in the back? I only see four and I need eight.”

“I’m sorry, all the sale items are out on the table.”

“There’s always more things in the back, you just need to check,” the woman insisted.

“There are no other holiday items in the back,” the salesgirl replied. “My manager said everything was out for the sale.”

The mink-coated woman huffed, but wordlessly walked away. The young salesgirl apologized to the customer for having to wait.

“There’s one in every crowd,” I heard someone in line say.

Just as the girl was about to help this customer, the mink-coated woman broke in line again, this time with a tree-shaped platter.

“Do you have a box for this?”

“We don’t have boxes here,” the salesgirl answered. “You need to go to gift wrapping on the first floor.”

“I don’t mean a gift box. I mean, did this platter come with its own box?”

“They didn’t come with individual boxes; the platters were shipped as a group.”

“What kind of store is this?” the woman blurted out, walking away.

As the woman in front of me in the green suit finally made it to the cashier counter, the mink-clad woman interrupted a third time, with a white plate.

“I need eight of these and I know you have more in the back because these are not on sale.”

The young girl replied, “As soon as I finish with these ladies who have been waiting in line, I’ll be glad to help you, but I can’t leave right now.”

The mink woman said, “I’m good friends with the general manager of this store and I think he needs to hear that his salesclerks are slow and rude.”

“The woman behind me whispered, “She needs to look in a mirror to see rude.”

The green-suited lady said to the interloper, “Do you also know the wife of the general manager?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Well, I’m meeting her for lunch so tell me your name. If I’m late because you prevented this young woman from doing her job, she’ll know why.”

The mink coat shook as the woman slammed the plate down. Storming away, she shouted, “Tell her the salesclerk in china needs to be fired.”

“This young lady is exactly the kind of employee this store is lucky to have,” my new friend answered.

“Do you really think I’ll get fired?” the young girl asked.

“Of course not. I doubt she knows the general manager. She just made that story up, thinking you would be intimidated.”

“I really need this job. I know I’m slow, but there was supposed to be two of us until the other woman called in sick. I told the manager I could handle this by myself, but it’s having to wrap each piece of china in plain newsprint before bagging that makes me so slow.”

“We can do that for you, can’t we girls?” the green-suited woman said, turning towards me and the woman behind me.

“Oh no, I can’t let you do that,” the salesgirl said, horrified. “I’ll get fired for sure. Besides, you’re having lunch with the wife of the general manager.”

“You won’t get fired. Just tell anyone who asks that we’re your volunteer Christmas elves helping out today. And I am not having lunch with anyone. I can tell a whopper of a story as good as the woman in her mink!”

We paid for our items, then stood behind the salesclerk. The three of us started wrapping each customer’s purchases. After an hour, the sales table was empty, and all the shoppers were happily wishing us a Merry Christmas.

“Thank you all so much. I don’t know what I would have done without you three ladies. You’re definitely my Christmas angels.”

I’m not sure “angels” would describe us, but if it hadn’t been for the courage of the woman in the green suit, customers would have been upset over the long wait, and the young salesgirl indeed may have lost her job. I learned — and maybe we all learned that day — how the spirit of kindness from just one person can create a ripple effect, inspiring those around her.

A week later, there was a picture in the newspaper of the general manager of that store and his wife attending a charity New Year’s Eve party. There she was, the lady in the green suit, whose kindness had organized us to help the young salesgirl. She certainly could tell a whopper of a story. 

From High Fashion to Home Furnishings

FROM HIGH FASHION TO HOME FURNISHINGS

Home
November 2024

From High Fashion to Home Furnishings

A passage to India leads to design inspiration

By Cynthia Adams  
Photographs by Amy Freeman

Elizabeth Wicker’s home renovation is a living laboratory, where she tinkers with sophisticated, restrained design, luxe wallpapers and sparkling touches. And yet there is a disciplined approach, and no clutter.

In her dining room/home office, she recently created a credenza in her role as a Chelsea House designer. The piece, newly arrived, could be popped between the two new bookcases of her design, or be used elsewhere, she says. A small, blown-glass bull on the shelf was purchased at Modern 214 in High Point, however, redolent of her time in Spain, and is not her design. She holds it in her hand, thoughtfully weighing it.

An ethereal Douglas Freeman painting hangs between the two bookcases.

The dining table, doing double duty as her work table, is a glamorous Hollywood Regency style also found at Modern 214. “It’s the first place I go when I get to market.” 

The wall color used throughout much of the upstairs is a pale Benjamin Moore gray, number 1611, a favorite, trimmed with Decorator’s White in high gloss — a serene backdrop to art and furnishings. If it reads too blue with different light, she tweaks the tint.

“This is my house. My passion project.”

The graphic wallpapers Wicker chose 10 years ago when she first moved in still work. 

Cranes wallpaper by Cole & Son in the foyer is a favorite. Her older brother walked in as the house was being renovated and stopped. “Beeb” (her nickname), she recalls him saying, “this wallpaper reminds me of something from our house growing up.” She laughs and shrugs. (But privately, she’d wondered, had something in her past inspired the choice?)

Wicker’s home, however beautiful, is equally spotless. 

She enthusiastically describes snuggling on the neutral living room sofa with her poodle-Cavalier King Charles mix, Sienna Rose. (The settees and sofas are all custom-sized to fit each niche and space, a benefit of working in the industry.) “Only if she has her blanket,” Wicker qualifies. 

She sheepishly continues.

“I’m a little OCD about cleanliness.” Her friends tease her with a barrage of questions: “Do I have shoes for her to wear if it gets really muddy?” Yes. “Do I make her wear them all the time?” No. “But did I try when she was a puppy?” Yes.

“Sienna Rose has been the best thing for me.”

Wicker moves through her home, picking up objects to illustrate her design style. A line of mother-of-pearl boxes are personal favorites. Sales reps told her they were a little pricey, but she stood her ground. 

“Well,” she told them, “Let’s see if you can do it!” The boxes wound up being a best seller, she says proudly. But that is not always the case. Home furnishings sales are mercurial, with variables such as bad weather, poor market attendance or poor buyer traffic at any given market. A white cachepot of her design has remained a best seller for Chelsea House. She has another one out, and two new trays are styled on kitchen counters, one using mother-of-pearl. 

Among the 100 or so pieces she designs each year are personal favorites that don’t make it into production. If this disappoints her, Wicker doesn’t complain. Rarely, too, is she disappointed by a design’s execution in manufacturing.

Wicker pauses before a large Art Deco-style mirror template she taped to the wall behind her desk. She studies the physical pattern a moment while scrutinizing the computerized version on one of two work screens. Details consume her and must be exact.

“This is the reason I bought the house,” she says, leading downstairs, shot with abundant natural light and luxuriant space. 

The basement level is a revelation. Equally restrained, it is also light, youthful and fun, designed for comfort and also further design experimentation. Wicker camouflaged an unfortunately placed fireplace with antique mirrors and reconfigured the large space, where she formerly worked. 

She points out Chelsea House designs used in the decor here.

“Down here is a bestselling cocktail table, lacquered, originally detailed in gold leaf.” Wicker personally favors small cocktail tables with heft, which she says are useful when entertaining, substantial enough to not tip over.

A side table in crisp white with brass accent is a signature Wicker design.

The glamorous basement powder room featuring a graphic wallpaper and a “Material Girl”-era Madonna photograph is much appreciated by her close friend, lawyer Andrew Spainhour. He teases Wicker, saying, “Pardon me, I’m going to go visit Madonna.” 

He has dubbed Wicker’s downstairs her “Genie room.”

“Like I dream of I Dream of Jennie, where she went to the bottom of her genie bottle?” Wicker explains. She’s piled cushy pillows around the sectional sofa. 

A framed collection of vintage Vogue illustrations is a nod to Wicker’s fashion background. 

The basement opens onto a covered outdoor entertaining area with a louvered privacy wall of her design that includes a hidden jib door. There’s ample space for Sienna Rose to run, she adds, nodding towards the large yard. Here, too, Wicker’s neatnik nature is on full display. Dog toys are neatly stacked as her pooch visits Wicker’s parents.

“I sit at the end of that step,” she shares, clearly besotted by her pet. “Sienna Rose gets to the fourth step and tends to look back to be sure I’m still there.”

Upstairs, she describes having revamped bathrooms, then transforming spaces by hanging papers selectively for graphic punch. By claiming much of the primary bedroom’s closet, Wicker expanded a formerly cramped en suite bath. 

Striking details, like the impressive brass pulls on custom bathroom cabinetry, reveal a little more genie-style magic. 

“They’re actually tie-backs,” Wicker says.

An antique French settee in her bedroom fits her maxim: You “must mix the old with the new.” Wicker lacquered a vintage credenza to make it read more of the moment.

The artwork she acquired fits with elegant restraint. Nothing competes with anything else. She mentions two favorites — eye-catching, large canvases. One hangs directly in front of her work table.

Both are by Freeman, an admired artist and her friend.

“When he brought this over, he said he wanted this in the hallway.” Wicker was hesitant as workmen were still on site; she didn’t want it harmed. Freeman was insistent, hanging it where it remains today. It is all the more meaningful to her as he subsequently died.

She smiles wistfully; it is a grace note.

“It’s my little labor of love, and I love my home,” she repeats, then flashes an enormous smile.

When Elizabeth Wicker was profiled as a Triad boomeranger — those ultimately returning home — it still surprised even her. She never expected a return to Greensboro after a career-making move to the Big Apple, where she worked for fashion maven Nanette Lepore. 

Today, she sees a beautiful symmetry to her trajectory and believes here is exactly where she is meant to be.

“I’m a boomerang and I’m all down for it,” Wicker says. “Cecelia Thomspon [executive director of Action Greensboro] is one of my best friends here.” Thompson conceived the very idea of Boomerang Greensboro, which promotes those who formerly lived here returning.

Initially, a series of unfortunate events brought Wicker back in 2014.

A creative pivot from fashion to furnishings design was unexpectedly easy for Wicker. 

Years perfecting dressmaker finishes and finer details for haute couture lent itself to the granular detail she now applies when designing for home furnishings giant Chelsea House. At 44, she is enjoying a challenging career working with home appointments versus high fashion. 

Wicker is among 10 designers working independently for Chelsea House, which celebrates its 50th anniversary this year. 

How her reset unfolded is one part fairy tale and ten parts hard work. Her design evolution also involved a revelatory business trip to India. When Wicker returned to Greensboro, those parts meshed in a transformative way.

She was always an independent, free spirit, remembers friend Sara Jane Gibson, who has known Wicker “since we were in diapers in the same play group. I tuned into this in high school.” She noticed her friend’s unique dress style and eye for design. Wicker’s bedroom was pasted with a collage of varied photographs from ceiling to floor—anything that she fancied. “She had stickers on the interior roof of her car.”

It presaged her home, which became a personal design laboratory.

In her early years, Wicker was influenced by family travels. She observed how her grandmother “sewed everything,” and soon grew passionate about sewing and creating, even as a teenager. 

Wicker pursued fashion design at N.C. State after graduating from Page High School and studied abroad in Spain. Still in college, she produced handbags and clutches under her own brand, Isabaya by Elizabeth Wicker. “I didn’t keep up with the trademark,” she says.

When the televised design competition Project Runway began its popular run, watching the pace stressed her out, she recalls. Then a student, she couldn’t believe the show’s contestants made designs so quickly. 

Despite all that, Wicker confesses imagining she’d eventually study law and follow her father, Robert Wicker, in becoming an attorney.   

Yet design opportunity opened. She won an internship with Lepore in New York, where she remained for six years. This led to Lepore employing Wicker as a liaison between design and production. 

“Lepore was known for her details, embellishments,” Wicker says with admiration. “Intricate designs. Nothing was just basic.” The free-spirited designer matched Wicker’s own enthusiasms — “a little gypsy” spirit. “I loved working with her; it was so much fun, and living in New York was fantastic.” 

But a series of setbacks for the design house hit. (The designer no longer owns the brand and has since shuttered her studio.) Then Wicker’s rent escalation forced her to give up her apartment in March 2008. 

Yet she hadn’t contemplated returning to her hometown. “I’d had all these great experiences — it felt; ah, am I ready for that?” Then her parents ran into her former soccer coach, who works in the textiles industry.  He relayed a message to Wicker: “Tell her to send me her resume.”

She relocated to Greensboro and joined underwear-and-hosiery manufacturer Kayser-Roth. After a year, she met and joined Triad designer Bradshaw Orrell, partner of the late Freeman, and began working with his clients and, ultimately, managing the business. 

Orrell was already designing for Chelsea House. In the process of the firm working on their High Point showroom, Wicker had begun ghost-designing for Chelsea House, too, “which isn’t odd at all in the design world.” 

Then, a misadventure changed her career once again. 

Orrell asked Wicker to join him on a business junket visiting 26 India manufacturers for Chelsea House. She only knew they would be “seeing their capabilities and seeing products that were already in the works that we had designed.” 

Arriving in New Delhi in January of 2020, Wicker quickly cleared customs. Orrell did not. She watched helplessly through a glass panel with mounting alarm as he was turned back by customs officials. 

“They sent him back that night because his visa was not up to date . . . and I’m just his sidekick going on this trip!” Although she was familiar with the process of how furniture pieces are made, “I had never been in India, and didn’t know exactly what Chelsea House wanted and what we were to do.”

Wicker didn’t even know any contact names of those they were meeting.

Their prearranged agent, Parik, met her at the airport with knowledge of the itinerary. She realized she had to go to four appointments the next day, unsure of what was expected, nor how to navigate expectations. 

Gibson, who lives in Charlotte, called Wicker five times when she learned her friend was there alone.    

“I just knew she was going with her boss . . . she’s savvy and could have navigated, but I was just worried about her.” Gibson adds, “She’s always had a big personality . . . She’s a leader and a woman on a mission.” 

“It was mind blowing. Amazing. But I got so sick,” Wicker recalls. She had packed basics for stomach upsets and headaches that did little for her symptoms. Her whole body ached. 

“My throat closed up. It wasn’t until about six months later that I realized it was COVID.”

Wicker isn’t an adventurous eater at best, and now she had no sense of taste nor smell. Parik diplomatically told everyone she only “ate dry food.” She munched on crackers and granola bars. And kept going. Wicker never smelled the rich curries and spices that are the stars of Indian cuisine.

After that first day in India, she thought, “I can do this!” She had moved from “I have to do this” to “I can do it!” At night, she would collapse in bed, sweating and ill. She lost her voice and could barely communicate. But she soldiered on.

Factory managers would ask Wicker whether she liked things they presented, carefully waiting for her to speak. “I wasn’t supposed to be the main person, but they wanted to show me what they could do. Everyone was so respectful.” She could absorb the sensory richness — textiles and architecture — of India if not the foods and aromas. “The colors! I loved it all!”

With Parik’s help, Wicker completed the entire 12-day agenda on her own. 

“I loved it,” she repeats.  And her creativity ignited.

She had feverishly “designed about 75 pieces while in India in collaboration with the people at the factories.” 

She flew back on a Sunday, her health improving. By Tuesday morning she was back at work, sending out new designs.

Wicker was exhausted. Elated. And changed.

She also turned 40 that summer, celebrating with a group of friends who have long been in her life. Wicker walks over to a bookshelf and picks up a magnifying glass she designed for friends as a party favor. It echoed her love of some of the nostalgic family items she values.

After returning from India, Chelsea House’s executives called Wicker to express support. By November, their new president contacted her about creating another line of furniture — in two weeks. She managed while still working full-time with Orrell.  She continued both until 2022.

“I learned so much there,” she says of her 12 instructive years with Orrell.

But India had changed “my thinking and career . . . It was the turning point.” 

Her designs are also plucked from personal references and life experiences. An alabaster apple she designed from one of the reeded-front bookshelves literally reflects her time in New York, the real Big Apple.

This includes both furniture and “the jewelry” — her term for the accessories she designs, such as trays and cachepots.

“I put pressure on myself to give as many details as possible.” 

What is the narrative thread in Elizabeth Wicker’s design life? 

“Outside influences,” she answers. She went out into the world, like a design explorer, and brought it all back to her studio. New York City, Spain and then India became touchstone places.

Her Instagram page describes her as “chasing everything creative.” 

“It’s a matter of letting yourself go. You may not be great at something — but you find your way. Your mind, your heart, everything will tell you where to go. It will lead you, for sure. That happened to me.”

Random, even mundane things, can mean an epiphany.

“I found packaging — this piece of cardboard! The way it was cut out and folded, I opened it and thought, hmmm. This would be a great body of the lamp. A base!”

Or, while eating out West on vacation: “There was the coolest design on the end of the fork. Something I’d never seen before.” Her fellow diners were amazed she noticed.

“It’s definitely not one-two-three” she says. The design process is different every time. But she firmly believes in routines.

Up at 7, she religiously makes her bed and jumps in the shower. “I do things for myself. Alone time. Get up and moving, and Sienna Rose sometimes goes to doggie daycare or stays here with me.” Wicker is, failing calamity, working by 9:30.

“You’ve got to get in a routine, and I learned that long before COVID.”

There are long hours, too, she admits, “when you ask ‘What did I even get done?’”

Two weeks earlier, Wicker was on a getaway with girlfriends in Darien, Connecticut. While browsing the shops, she spotted one of her designs and had a moment. “This has never happened to me,” she insists. “The girls started saying, in high-pitched voices, ‘Oh my gosh!’”

The store owner asked Wicker’s name. “I turned beet red.” They requested a photograph of her with the piece. “It was a really cool experience. Then I looked over and spotted another of my pieces.” Her heart lifted.

What feeds her? Her parents were “guiding light people,” she praises. They gave her tools of self-reliance.

“They gave me the freedom to explore my creative side and to travel. No limitations set on me in the sense, I never remember their saying stop doing that.”

So she hasn’t.

Rituals for enhancing creativity? Noticing things. It may not inspire a new product idea. But perhaps the texture of a leaf, or the undulation of packing material, the mundane, pricks the subconscious inspiring a new finish. 

Sometimes just walking along a path does the trick. 

“Get a dog,” she winks.