September has always meant to me school that is back for another year. When I was younger, summer ending never really upset me. I looked forward to fall for two reasons: my birthday, and the Fair.
As a kid, the fair (besides Christmas) was the big event of the year. First, you had the parade to see, and then off to the actual goodness. The bright lights and sounds begging you to come inside to enjoy this special once-a-year fun, to hang out with friends, daring each other to ride the scariest ride, and trying to spend every last penny your parents gave you.
Now I am one of the parents hoping my child doesn’t want to spend all the money she is sent with. Also, I get to be one of the parents who go with my daughter to see how she did at the fair with her entries.
I get to sit out the rides that I use to get dared to ride.. Instead I get to see Glitter Bug and her Dad on them. And bless him; she loves the ones that go high and fast. This year she is finally tall enough to enjoy most.
Probably the best part is to see the fair through a child’s eyes again and taking you back to when you were a kid. To look forward to the once-a-year fun this is a magical experience for both young children and the young at heart.
Hey y’all! Alicia Dowell here from Simple Words by A. I have the honor of being the September blogger of the month. It was a complete shock when the email arrived. I had to read it again a couple of times.
I grew up in southwest Arkansas middle daughter of three. College was at Southern Arkansas University where I met my wonderful Hubby. We married three years after meeting and didn’t wait to start our family.
I started blogging almost six years ago as a way to keep in touch with family and a way to write more. I always have had a crazy dream of becoming a published author and thought blogging might help encourage me. This was all while juggling being a new mother and working two jobs. Nothing like trying too much! I never imagined where my little blog or myself would end up. It has been a long journey but so many great memories and friends have been made.
I look forward to serving as September’s blogger of the month and look forward to sharing with all of y’all.
When we travel, we are inclined to stay away from the comfortable familiarity of chain establishments, we like to explore the local Farmers Markets, local supermarkets and of course, the local restaurants. Local food and fare are my preferred way to discover the culture of a town or country. We have consumed pony, whale and rotten shark in Iceland, devoured ribs in Memphis, guzzled gumbo in New Orleans, dined on whole octopus and grilled sardines in Portugal, tasted kangaroo in Australia, snacked on street food in India, and sipped mint juleps in Kentucky.
I tend to research restaurants, and ensure we have a selection of interesting places to eat before even leaving town. Which is how on one very memorable occasion, I enjoyed many fine meals in Las Vegas, but, having avoided organizing accommodations until the very last minute, ended up having to stay at a cheap and tacky hotel a long way from everywhere.
We have returned home with French butter, New Zealand honeycomb and Illinois wine to enjoy in comfort and contentment with friends and family. Because as much as we love to travel, we love to be back in our neighborhood, with our most favorite kind of souvenir. Edible.
HONEYCOMB AND BRIE WITH APPLE
2 tablespoons olive oil
1/2 red onion, thinly sliced
1 clove garlic, minced
1 teaspoon fresh thyme leaves
salt and freshly ground black pepper
1 to 2 apples, sliced horizontally, core removed
6 ounces brie, sliced
honeycomb
Heat oven to 350F. In a medium skillet over medium-low heat, heat the olive oil. Add the onion, garlic and thyme, then sauté for 5 minutes, or until the onion is tender. Season to taste with salt and pepper. Place apple slices on a greased cookie sheet, top with brie and onion mixture. Bake for 10 minutes, until cheese is warm and melted. Remove from oven, transfer to a serving plate and top each with a spoonful of honeycomb.
As soon as Fayetteville passed the ordinance to allow chickens within city limits, we were down to the local farmers co-op, choosing four adorable chicks, and eagerly carrying them to their new home in our backyard.
Initially they had the run of the place, but there is no toilet training a chicken, and cleaning off the pool deck became tedious every time we wanted to swim. So they now enjoy scratching, pecking and perching in their custom made coop, and we enjoy collecting their eggs from one place, as opposed to having to search for them throughout the yard.
I’m not sure my palate is sophisticated enough to notice a difference in taste between store-bought eggs and our yard eggs. However, the difference in nutritional value, and color is significant, and an unexpected perk – chicken psychology and behavior is fascinating!
SAVORY VEGETABLE AND GOAT CHEESE TART
1 store bought pie crust
1 to 2 bunches of asparagus
3 tablespoons of olive oil, divided use
salt and freshly ground black pepper
1 tablespoon butter
5 green onions, thinly sliced
8 ounces soft goat cheese
1/4 cup creme fraiche
1/4 cup cream
1 tablespoon finely chopped flat leaf parsley
1 tablespoon finely chopped fresh chives
2 teaspoons finely chopped fresh tarragon
3 eggs
Bake crust according to package instructions. Let cool on a wire rack.
Heat oven to 425F. Line a baking sheet with foil. Cut off the top 1 to 1 1/2 inch of the asparagus tips. Toss in a small bowl with 2 tablespoons of oil, season with salt and pepper. Place in a single layer on prepared sheet, roast, turning once, until asparagus is bright green and tender, about 8 to 10 minutes. (I roasted this at the same time as I baked the crust).
Reduce oven temperature to 375F.
Heat remaining 1 tablespoon of olive oil and butter in a medium skillet over medium heat. Add sliced asparagus stalks and green onion, season with salt and pepper. Cook, stirring often, until onions are soft and asparagus is bright green and tender, 6 to 8 minutes. Let cool slightly, spread evenly over bottom of tart crust.
Whisk goat cheese, creme fraiche, cream, parsley, chives and tarragon, in a medium bowl. Season with salt and pepper. Whisk in eggs. Pour over vegetables. Scatter asparagus tips over the top. Bake tart until the edges of the crust are golden brown and filling is set, 20 to 25 minutes. Let cool in pan for 20 minutes.
I moved away from the country in which I was born in my early 20’s. Along with a sense of adventure, fun and excitement, I felt a touch of homesickness, naturally for family, friends, and the familiar, but also for foods I had grown up with.
My friend and I were a bit of an oddity in Lake Charles, Louisiana, not only talking with a strong and unusual accent, but also using different and unusual words. The telephone line wasn’t busy, it was engaged and we filled our chilly bin with ice and drinks. My friend eventually moved back to New Zealand to be with her boyfriend, but as I had traveled half way around the world to see and experience the USA, I stayed – and moved up one whole state, but a world away, to Arkansas.
My first time back to New Zealand, I loaded up with cheese that squeezed out of a can, Oreo cookies and every imaginable peanut butter and chocolate combination, to the delight of my friends and family. While there, my mealtime desires would be satisfied for a time, and I returned bearing every food I was allowed within the bounds of traveling internationally. I even attempted to bring a Kumara, or native sweet potato, into the country, but my conscience insisted I declare it, and of course it was taken away by the customs officials.
Pumpkins that were familiar, which I would roast or turn into soup, not just decorate with around Fall and Halloween, recently started to appear at our local farmers market, and New Zealand wines are readily available at our local liquor store. Then to my great delight, I found in a supermarket right around the corner from where I live, disguised as a Japanese Sweet Potato, the staple vegetable of every roast dinner I had growing up, Kumara. It was wonderful to find locally, what I had been missing from across the globe.
Kumara Salad
1 kg Kumara, peeled and chopped into 2 cm pieces
2 tablespoons olive oil
4 rashers of bacon
2 teaspoons honey
2 teaspoons Dijon mustard
1 tablespoon white wine vinegar
1/4 cup olive oil
4 spring onions, sliced
Heat the oven to 200C. Toss the Kumara in the olive oil and place in a single layer in a roasting dish. Cook for 30 to 35 minutes until kumara is golden and tender.
Meanwhile, heat a small frying pan over high heat and cook the bacon until crisp. Remove from heat and chop into pieces.
Place the honey, mustard and vinegar in a small bowl and whisk to combine. Add the olive oil in a slow, steady stream while continuing to whisk.
Toss the kumara, bacon, and spring onion together in a bowl, drizzle over the dressing and stir to combine.
Enjoy!
Recipe adapted from The Foodtown Magazine, April/May 2007
Hello, I’m Ceri, wife, Mother and recipe follower and I am absolutely thrilled to serve as the Arkansas Women Blogger of the month for August.
I grew up in New Zealand, came to America for my “overseas experience” to work as an Occupational Therapist, fell in love with a man from Louisiana and chose to make my home permanently in Fayetteville, Arkansas.
For years I have produced one new dish from an existing recipe every day. Some are absolutely delicious, and some are most definitely not. I love to entertain, read and travel. I started recipedoodle.com when my youngest child started school, three years ago, and try to post at least one recipe a day – something I have made, photographed, and eaten, and most Tuesdays I feature a near or far place I have visited. Blogging initially, was a way for me to become more knowledgable about the computer, and it has developed into a fun creative outlet beyond cooking.
I grew up in a great neighborhood in a time when we enjoyed a freedom that today’s kids will never experience. Occasionally, the flicker of lightning bugs, clatter of cicadas or unmistakable smell of honeysuckle transports me back to those early years. It happened recently, inspiring me to try to capture such a day in verse.
Summertime Moments
Shifting shadows and a cicada chorus stir
Up recollections of early years before
Mom worked and being out of school
Meant sleeping late and
Eating buttered toast at the end of the kitchen, then
Rocketing outside barefoot to play
‘Til Noon when we’d straggle back
In for bacon and tomato sandwiches on white bread, slathered with
Miracle Whip, not mayonnaise, because Daddy liked it better.
Even now I can taste that juicy-tangy-savory staple.
Mostly we ran in a pack, that is, until the
Orneryboys sped off on their bikes, leaving Judy and
Me to hunt for 4-leaf clovers, or play jacks—all the while, steeping in
Envy of their freedom because they were bigger, but
Not too big to later play Mama, May I? and Swing the Statue until
Twilight when we chased fireflies across the lawn.
Such are the thoughts that drift in on honeysuckle breezes.
Courtesy of Debbie Hoofman
This is my last post as Miss July. Being featured in this spot has been the highlight of my summer. I’m grateful to everyone who took the time to read my posts. I also want to say thank you to the women who connect us with one another and new writing opportunities. Thank you for all the time you devote to the Arkansas Women Bloggers’ website and for the way you continually coach and encourage us. You Are Awesome!
I’m looking forward to seeing everyone at the AWB University in September!
This is the day that the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it. Psalm 118:24
I wrote my first post as Miss July just before we left on our 40th wedding anniversary trip to Navarre Beach, Florida. Consequently, you’ve read a lot about Johnson history and the things I love about the Emerald Coast. However, today, I find my heart turning toward home. By the time you read this, I’ll be back on my beloved ridge in Little Rock, which makes me happy. I don’t care if it’s Hot-Hot-Hot-97-degrees-Hot there. You see, I’m an Arkansas girl through and through. I’m accustomed to it. In spite of the dog days of summer, I’ve been content to live in our beautiful state most of my life.
When we travel, we sometimes meet people who have formed an opinion of Arkansas without ever having stepped foot in the state. A few have made it clear that they think we’re backward and ignorant. Once we shared a table with a man on a cruise who laughed in my face when I said I was from Arkansas. When I was a young mother living near one of the Great Lakes, a woman asked in all seriousness if everyone really went barefoot here. She was a neighbor, and I can tell you she was less educated and refined than most of the people I know. Little did she know she was talking to the Shoe Queen. (I have a weakness for cute shoes, even devote a place on my blog to my love affair with them.)
Perhaps my worst experience was the evening I was entertained in the home of a transplant from South Carolina. She spent the entire evening criticizing Arkansas to several women who had recently relocated to Little Rock. I stayed long enough to be polite. Later when I heard she had moved back home, I was glad for all of us. I figured she must have been really homesick that night.
I was taught to be gracious, even when people are not. So in the face of such rudeness, I usually say that Arkansas is beautiful and full of lovely people—that they should visit sometime. But what I’m really thinking is Please stay away. We don’t need ill-mannered folks messing up our state.
Recently, it occurred to me that those who ridicule Arkansas are the ignorant ones. They lack experience. They’ve never watched the sunrise over Greer’s Ferry Lake, witnessed a sunset on Petit Jean Mountain or seen the mighty Arkansas River covered in fog. They couldn’t have ever driven through the Ozarks in the autumn or spring, floated the Buffalo, picked peaches at Guy or Clarksville, watched a crop duster swoop across a sea of soybeans or cotton. They surely never bumped their way along a dirt track bordered by pines so thick and tall you could almost break your neck looking up at their tops.
I’m certain they’ve never experienced the thrill of seeing ducks circle over rice fields, fished for trout, crappie and brim, dug for diamonds near Murfreesboro, rock climbed at Horseshoe Canyon Ranch or tasted a Bradley county tomato. They’ve never water skied on Lake Hamilton, visited the bathhouses in Hot Springs or camped in one of our state parks. They’re probably clueless about Crystal Bridges, the Arkansas Art Center, our excellent universities and so much more. Bless their hearts. They just don’t know.
But I do know. And as much as I enjoy our beach getaway, I’m a little homesick. I don’t care if it’s 97 degrees in Arkansas. I’m ready to get back to our cranky Lucy, audacious Max, and fraidy-cat, Timmy. I want to see my children and grandchildren, have dinner with our neighbors, visit Aunt Gladys—even do her laundry. I’m ready to get back to my Sunday school class and to meet the new preacher. I want to have lunch with my girlfriends, brunch with our Searcy group, go to the farmer’s market, even weed my flower beds and clean my house because all those things are what make it home. And I’m ready to be there soon.
In fact, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll go pack my bag right now, because that other Dorothy had it right. There truly is no place like home.
You make the going out of the morning and the evening to shout for joy. Ps. 65:8b
Have you ever experienced a divine appointment—found your day blessed by an unexpected heart connection with someone? It happened to me last week when I dropped by Saltwater Cottage to meet one of its owners, Julie Condon, and to get her picture for a post about shopping along Florida 98. When I visited the cottage a couple of months back, Julie wasn’t there. Although her partner, Tom, welcomed me and answered my questions, he told me Julie was the inspiration behind Saltwater Cottage and insisted that I come back to meet her and hear her story.
Tom and a sampling of Saltwater Cottage treasures
It was almost time for us to head home to Arkansas, so I didn’t make it by again that week. However, I remembered our conversation and had planned to make a second visit during this trip. When I realized I had left my notes for the blog in Little Rock, I knew it was meant to be. I didn’t mind because I had fallen in love with Saltwater Cottage and was happy to drop in again.
Julie and shop pooch, Izzy (Isabella)
I must tell you that Julie proved to be as charming as her surroundings. As she shared her adventure of faith, I understood why Tom had been so adamant that I meet her. Julie’s journey began around Thanksgiving 2008 when she and her Sunday school class were challenged by her pastor to get back to observing a regular quiet time with Jesus. One morning during a walk on the beach, she told the Lord she wanted to serve Him in whatever capacity He chose. She’d just poured out her heart, saying she’d share her trash if it would help someone else get rid of theirs, when a large sand dollar washed up at her feet. The surf often scatters their fragments along the Gulf beaches, but Julie had never found a whole sand dollar before.
That sand dollar became a sign to Julie—a sign that God had heard her prayer. However, instead of things getting better, for a time, it felt as though He was shaking her to dislodge all that trash she’d invited Him clean out. The details are Julie’s story to tell, but a ministry to others was born from that season of soul cleaning. As women with similar wounds were drawn to her, Julie began to consider the possibility of creating a place like Saltwater Cottage where she could minister to others and share the Good News. With Tom’s encouragement, she began to take steps in that direction.
After negotiations on a space on Navarre Beach fell through in 2011, Julie noticed an abandoned cottage on Highway 98. She and Tom stopped to inspect it through shattered window panes and found a neglected building without floors. But Julie saw beyond the decay, and although she didn’t have the financial means to restore it, she had a vision for what it could become. She felt led to call the owner and tell him if he’d provide the materials, they would fix it. He agreed and the work began. Six months later, on Mother’s Day weekend 2012, Saltwater Cottage opened its doors for business.
The shop is a mix of shabby chic beach décor, jewelry, soaps, scrubs and both gourmet and down-home food.
I couldn’t resist these bracelets. One is engraved with the words “faith sees the invisible, feels the intangible, achieves the impossible.” The other reads “protect this woman.”
As I watched Julie share her faith with customers in a natural, disarming manner, I understood why people are drawn to her. A couple of friends stopped by to visit—one, a member of a prayer group called The Twelve that grew out of the ministry, told me she just likes to hang out at the cottage. If I lived here full time, I’d be a regular, too, because Saltwater Cottage is a place of God’s love, light and healing.
Julie’s prayer group gives away these blocks as a reminder that someone is praying for you. I was delighted to go home with one.
Julie told me they pay for everything as they go so she can walk away anytime God calls her to another task. But after watching her in action, I pray Saltwater Cottage will become an enduring fixture in Navarre.
If you vacation on the panhandle, be sure to drop by Saltwater Cottage. You’ll be blessed. And tell them Dorothy sent you.
Let your conversation be always full of grace, seasoned with salt, so that you may know how to answer everyone.
Col. 4:6
Today is Terry’s and my 40th wedding anniversary. We’re spending it at our favorite place, Navarre Beach, Florida. As I look back over all the years our family has come to the panhandle, it’s the small pleasures like early morning walks and watching the children play in the surf that come to mind.
I usually return from my treks with several small shells in hand. I’m told the big ones end up on sandbars farther out from shore. However, one summer, people were finding an abundance of shells, large and small. Inspired by a showy collection a man had excavated from an embankment nearby, I sought out the spot to hunt for my own buried treasure. My digging turned up lots of interesting and less common specimens, but none as nice as his. I was hopeful though, and each day, I continued my search.
One morning, I stopped by a tidal pool lying directly behind our condo where I spied a small white sand dollar, glinting in the sun. The tiny orb was no larger than a quarter and flawless. A Keeper. But where to stash it? I had no pocket, and it would take ten minutes to carry it back to the condo. Ten minutes I didn’t want to burn because I had bigger things on my mind. So I dropped that perfect little sand dollar into my plastic Winn Dixie bag and continued down the beach, intent on scoring one of those big conchs. While I found some interesting medium-sized shells and added them to my sack, once again, the Big One eluded me.
Hot and tired, I trudged back home where I rinsed the shells, one by one. When I reached the bottom of the bag, there was no sand dollar in sight. Perhaps it was caught in a fold of the sack. When I turned the bag inside out to look, a shower of tiny granules littered the counter. My perfect little sand dollar had been crushed by all the mediocre shells I had piled on top of it. It was gone. I was crushed—and dogged by if-only thoughts. If only I’d worn shorts with pockets. If only I’d carried it back to the condo. Ten minutes didn’t seem so long, retrospectively. Every morning, I returned to the tidal pool, hoping for another prize, but to my disappointment, none appeared.
That incident happened at least four years ago, and I must admit, I’ve been searching for that elusive sand dollar ever since. Along the way, I’ve spent lots of time reflecting on my experience. Although I was surprised at the depth of my grief, I knew it reflected how foolish I felt for not appreciating and protecting that perfect little gift—which brings me to the point of this confession.
Sometimes a seemingly small but special moment or opportunity surprises us in the midst of important-feeling pursuits. When that happens, we need to recognize it and cherish the moment or pursue the opportunity because it is precious and perhaps, singular.
This year, I’ve resolved to give up my search for a replacement to that prize. Instead I’m attempting to be grateful for every little offering I encounter on the beach. My prayer has become that I’ll recognize each small blessing and when necessary, change my plans so I can truly savor the moment. I’ve learned the hard way that once it’s gone, there are no guarantees it will ever come again.
I wanted to show you how lovely that little sand dollar was, so today I purchased several at a shell store for 29 cents apiece. Twenty-nine cents—I could have bought a bowlful, but I didn’t. For how could they compare to the priceless experience of discovering that one perfect little sand dollar? But I’m not sad anymore because I learned a valuable lesson from my folly. And it’s past time for me to move on so I won’t miss the next blessing that’s sure to come my way. Besides, I’m an optimist, and you never know when another little creature might wash up with the tide.
Today, I wish you many Perfect-Sand-Dollar Moments. They are precious. Handle them with care.
If this story struck a chord with you, drop by Reflections from Dorothy’s Ridge on Thursday where I’ll be sharing a few more thoughts about my experience. Yes, I have lots more, because as I mentioned, I’ve had plenty of time to think about it.
Do not despise this small beginning, for the eyes of the Lord rejoice to see the work begin…
Zech. 4:10 (LB)
Hello, I’m Ceri, wife, Mother and recipe follower and I am absolutely thrilled to serve as the Arkansas Women Blogger of the month for August.
Courtesy of Debbie Hoofman
