Scout Moves

In reading about the history of pie, I discovered an amazing story, the life and times of Jeffrey Hudson. Jeffrey Hudson was born in England in 1619 with a birth defect—he was born a pituitary dwarf and would grow to be tiny but perfectly proportioned, "a rarity of nature." As a seven-year-old boy who stood only 18 inches tall, he caught the attention of the Duke and Duchess of Birmingham, and his family basically handed him over to them. In those days with royalty wanting to find amusement in every little thing, kitchen staff would bake big pies and stuff the crusts with living things like birds and bunnies that would fly or hop away when the crust was ceremoniously cut at the table—four and twenty black birds baked in a pie and all that. Not long after Jeffrey came to live with the Duke and Duchess, he was presented in such a pie at a dinner to honor Queen Henrietta. Being one to collect oddities like giants and monkeys, the Queen added Jeffrey to her menagerie and made him

It's been quite a while since I have devoted an entire week to one subject like mashed potatoes or tuna casserole or toilets . Maybe it's time for Pie Week. If I weren't taking a trip to New York this coming Thursday, I'd make it this week. Maybe I'll order pie in New York and tell you all about it when I get home. Here are the pies for this evening—sweet potato, pecan, and chess. I hope they're all great, but I can't wait to try the chess pie. When I take that first bite, I'll be ten years old sitting in my grandmother's kitchen in Alabama. The July flies will be rattling in the trees in the back yard, my aunts and uncles will be sharing stories around the table, and my Memaw will say, "Hey. Have you a piece of pie." Don't mind if I do.

Today is Pie Day because I'll be baking pies. I've never been very good at that, or at least I have not tried very often, but today I am determined. We'll be hosting a large dinner party tomorrow evening in honor of some out-of-town guests, and I have decided to create the kind of southern meal I loved as a kid—pulled-pork barbecue sandwiches, coleslaw, baked beans, and pie. The pork will roast all day tomorrow, and the slaw and beans will be relatively easy, but I need to make the pies today. I'll be making sweet potato pie, sorghum pecan pie, and chess pie. As much as I loved all of these growing up, the chess pie is my favorite. This pie evolved during the 1700s with a variation being found in Martha Washington's personal cookbook. To some people, it may seem too simple—my brother-in-law used to call it Crust Pie because it looked as if it had no filling. But to me, it's golden. Here is the version I'll be baking today. 2 cups sugar 2 T. cornmeal 1 T. flo

It's now Art & Craft Day because what I have been doing lately is hardly art. I have been sewing purses. Eustacia decided she wanted to learn to sew, so I started her on an apron, the project all kids learned to make back in the day when school actually had home ec. and shop classes for everyone. Her project reminded me that I used to sew quite a lot. When my girls were little, I made their dresses, and if I was bored, I would make an entire wardbrobe full of baby clothes. I got tired of it, though, and put the machine away. Well, now it's back, and I have been making purses and bags. They only take an hour or so to complete, and because they don't use much fabric, they aren't expensive to create. Some of what I have been making is from reclaimed fabric. Reclaimed because I cut up old dresses and skirts that I either find at the Good Will store or in the back of my own closet. I have this idea I might include these on my future etsy.com site. Here is a handbag made

I have been watching What Not to Wear lately, but not as a fan. I watch it in complete fascination at the people who let themselves be transformed by two people who claim to know all the right things about how to dress, and apparently there is only one right way. If you've not seen the show, let me tell you—Stacy London and Clinton Kelly work with a person whose family or friends have handed them over as needing fashion help. They throw out everything in that poor woman's closet, mocking her and her clothes in the process even if she cries, and then teach that person how to dress. Granted, the subject of each episode gets $5000 to spend on new clothes and shoes, and she gets a new haircut and some makeup tips, but she also has to listen while these two people tell her how frumpy she looks or how it doesn't matter if she is comfortable in her clothes or thinks her clothes represent her personality. "What, your personality is a circus tent?" What's important is

I have an issue with this picture. Sure, the cat is cute, but who decided the couch was ugly? I am irked because I used to have this exact same couch and a matching love seat, and I thought the stuff was beautiful. It looked great in the family room with the cherry-finish wood floor, the cherry accent tables, and the brick fireplace against the white painted trim. What a room that was. We only got rid of the furniture when we built an addition to the house that included a bigger family room. The "ugly" stuff was dwarfed by it and looked silly instead of cozy. We gave it to a jerk we knew who needed furniture but couldn't afford it. He wasn't a jerk because he couldn't afford furniture. He was a jerk for every other imaginable reason. I once gave the guy a parakeet I had come to hate because it was mean. No one would spend time with it, so it was wild and unfriendly. The jerk decided the bird would enjoy a little time in the bushes outside his patio, and since I ha

Today is Daughter No. 1's 21st birthday. Yippie! I wanted to post some baby pictures, but I can't find the scanner. So, here are a few pictures that I happen to like that were already scanned. First, this is the girl dressed as a unicycle for Halloween several years ago. She was too old to trick-or-treat, but the marching band members dressed in costume for the town Halloween parade. She used to be quite the unicycler. This is my adoring and respectful daughter on the balcony of a cruise ship. We have a special bond. And this is the two of us before a summer band concert back when we were both involved. I love this picture because it's a sign of something we both enjoy. We are very different from each other, Daughter and I, but we find ways to connect. Band is one of them. So, happy birthday, little girl. Enjoy it! I love you.

Eustacia and I went to the local theater production of Beauty and the Beast, the Disney version, over the weekend. Yes, Small Town has a theater, The Little Theater, in fact. I don't know for sure, but I think the auditorium seats about 200. Just guessing. There were some ceiling tiles missing on the right side of the room, and there were enough spider webs and cobwebs hanging from up there to weave a rug. Almost all of the performers were from either Small Town or Small Town Next Door, and they were excellent. Every one of them sang on pitch, and if they forgot any lines, you couldn't tell. The set was somewhat minimal, but I appreciate that because it lets you connect with the performers and the story without unnecessary distraction. A horn player I know who is heavily involved in productions at this theater played Gaston. I wasn't sure what to expect because I have never heard him sing before, but he filled the role perfectly. He was just cheeky enough and just enough of

Last Saturday, Small Town had a sidewalk sale like only Small Town can do it. The candy shop, which could have made a killing, wasn't even open much less have treats outside to attract customers. There was a man sitting at a table under a tent apparently selling nothing whatsoever. He just sat there, smiled, and said "hello." The library sold used books at tables set up in front of the heating and cooling business. And in front of one of the finest salons in town was a table full of crap. The employees emptied out their junk drawers, I think, and slapped price tags on the stuff. I said "hello" to the guy at the table. At the heating and cooling place, I bought a biography of Abigail Adams, and at the salon, I spent $5 on the ugliest necklace you ever saw. It was made of glass beads and wooden beads, and it was covered in dust. I unstrung the beads and rinsed them off, and then I sat down to make earrings. Vintage, I call them. The pair with black and white chipp

Just recently I have begun writing commentaries for the local newspaper. Twice now they have been kind enough to give me a spot in the Wednesday edition, a spot with a limitation—a word limit of 700. I have always been a kind of storyteller, but I haven’t always been one to edit the number of words I use or the tangents I allow myself to indulge in. During the writing of the two published pieces and those waiting in the Documents folder, I found this limit a form of discipline, one of those rules you can’t avoid so you might as well learn something while complying. 700 Words has become a game I play now. When I write a piece I am contemplating submitting to the editor, I try to make sure I hit that exact number. 701 or 699 give me agita, and I have to mull over the story to see what word to add or take away to be exact. During a review, if I decide to delete a sentence, I count the words I am erasing and give myself that many to add in another spot. I get excited when I go back and dis

Someone commented on my story about the value of a human being, informing me there was such a thing as a cadaver calculator. How could I resist? $4425.00 The Cadaver Calculator - Find out how much your body is worth.

After reading about the African trade beads I have been working with, my sister wrote to tell me about a necklace she has that is made from flip-flops. Sounds kind of icky on the surface, but considering these flip-flops have traveled the Pacific ocean, they have probably been washed clean of foot dirt. Every year, thousands of flip-flops wash ashore along the coast of Kenya, coming from as far away as Japan, although I don't know how you can tell the origin of the things for sure. They junk up the beaches and kill the marine life that tries to eat them. And now they provide jobs for people who would otherwise subsist on fishing. A group called UniquEco works with locals to gather the sandals and recycle them into things like toys, sculptures, and jewelry. The 120 people involved in the program now earn more than they normally would and can move beyond just surviving. My sister's necklace (ab0ve) was made by a single mother who had no options or skills to support herself or he

The EPA has reevaluated the statistical value of a human being and determined we are each worth $6.9 million dollars. That's down about 11% from their last calculation. I'm not sure what caused the decrease—we aren't like a new car. You buy it at full price, and the minute you drive it off the lot, it depreciates. Every organization has its own way of figuring out the value of a human life, and according to the others, the EPA is being generous. They use this figure to determine the cost-effectiveness of a project. If a project is more costly than the value of the total number of people effected, then it's likely to be scrapped. It sounds harsh, but it may actually be a legitimate way to encourage project managers and planners to be more efficient. It seems gruesome to put a price tag on a person as a whole but not as ghastly as putting a price on each individual part. In a previous life, I was an insurance agent, and I was shocked to learn that actuaries had priced ou

I have been searching for quotes related to coffee for a story I have floating around in my head. I found the usual quotes that appear in gift books and painted on coffee-shop walls, but the best quotes I have found come from 1674—The Women's Petition Against Coffee. Here is what the disgruntled women said: "Certainly our Countrymens pallates are become as Fantastical as their Brains; how ellse is't possible they should Apostatize from the good old primitve way of Ale-drinking, to run a whoring after such variety of distructive Foreign Liquors, to trifle away their time, scald their Chops, and spend their Money, all for a little base, black, thick, nasty, bitter, stinking, nauseous Puddle-water: Yet (as all Witches have their CHarms) so this ugly Turskish Enchantress by certain Invisible VVyres attracts both Rich and Poor; so that those that have scarece Twopence to buy their Children Bread, must spend a penny each evening in this Insipid Stuff: Nor can we send one of our

Last week, after making a few pair of earrings with my antique African trade beads, I decided to just empty the bag and see what I could create. I finished with nearly two dozen pair of unique earrings. Some are so unique they don't match each other in the same pair. I like that, so I don't mind offering a white bead on one side and green one on the other as a set. I created cards for them all and dropped them off at my friend Adair's shop . She'll try to sell them on consignment for a few weeks. If we don't have success with that route, then I'll create an etsy shop where I also might try to unload some of my little paintings. Here are a few of the earrings I have made. I am keeping the brown ones for myself, and Eustacia has claimed the blue stripey pair.

While I was at the lake house last weekend, I took some shots of the flowers and things growing there. The previous owners had planted all sorts of things, and I don't know what most of them are. I just walk outside and see stuff growing. Every summer is a surprise as if I hadn't seen the same things growing the year before, but I'm not one to pay a lot of attention to plant growth. So, tell me what's in my yard? Yellow things. Purple things. Some big tropical looking thing. Pretty pink things. I'm just kidding about this one—I know it's a hydrangea bush. But I'm clueless about the rest.

There is a blog and a book afoot called Stuff White People Like , all written by a white guy, and they kind of make me feel usual. I know the author is making fun of himself as much as he is making fun of a kind of subculture, but still...I was hoping to be singular. Christian Lander, the author, has put together a list of things white people like and use to set themselves apart. But even though the author thoroughly embraces this new culture with his tongue in his cheek, and even though I seem to fit in with this bunch like my favorite sweater, I don't feel superior as Lander suggests. I feel bad. I feel cheap. I feel as if my uniqueness has been robbed from me. There. I've fit in again just by feeling typical. Amazon.com says this to describe the white people in this new book: "They believe they’re unique, yet somehow they’re all exactly the same." The blog has an updated list with 104 items, and I have copied it below, making bold the things I like and occasionally

We hosted a dinner party the other night in honor of Independence Day. The town nearest the lake house has a fireworks display with the rockets being launched from a hilltop, and people with boats head out onto the lake after sundown and watch the display at anchor. It's always fun, but when a critter like a chipmunk or squirrel sneaks aboard beforehand and chews through your wiring, you're better off watching the show from your dock. That's what we decided, anyway, so our guests wouldn't be stranded in the middle of the lake with a dead engine. Despite that small setback, dinner was a delight. I served gazpacho and cucumber/honeydew melon soup in shot glasses alongside herbed shortbread as the appetizer. The entrée was filet mignon baked in a filo crust, sautéed carrots, and a salad brought by one of the guests. One of the others brought dessert. Since the shortbread was such a hit, I'll give you all the recipe. It comes from Gourmet , the September 2005 issue. Sca

My summer band, at least 100 people strong, gave its July 4th concert on the 5th, and the crowd was happy. We did some traditional songs like the National Anthem and Stars and Stripes Forever, that undying God Bless the USA (gosh, I wish that would die), and 1812 Overture. There were other numbers in there with a couple of vocal solos and marches like you'd expect, and we got a standing ovation or two. My favorite number to play was American Overture—it's an exhilarating horn section feature with lots of great phrases, and you can even hear us through all the trombone and trumpet blaring. It was a lot of fun, although that could just be me. I do tend to approach these things with the enthusiasm of a little kid about to dig into a sugar cone stuffed with double chocolate ice cream, or mint chocolate chip if you prefer. In band music, in order to keep the music down to a page or two, pieces are written with repeats—you go back and play the previous section a second time so the pu

Update: this piece was indeed published in this morning's paper (July 9th) slightly behind schedule) While I celebrated the Fourth of July last night with a dinner party and fireworks viewed from the lake house, Small Town and Small Town Next Door are celebrating Independence Day on the Fifth of July. I don't know why they do that, but part of the celebration will include a concert performed by my big, fat, summer band. I'm excited. I had written a patriotic piece for Small Town's newspaper, but it didn't make it in yesterday's issue as I had hoped. Just so it doesn't go to waste, I'll copy it below. Happy Fifth. ••• I am a true patriot, the kind who takes her right to vote seriously, and the kind who gets weepy at Memorial Day observances and group singing of the National Anthem. I don’t often shy from arguing for or against my nation’s policies and championing various political candidates as I see fit. Just the first three notes of “Taps” can make my e

A few years ago, Husband took a trip to Nigeria and Kenya and came back with several strands of trade beads. We have been pulling them apart ever since for necklaces and bracelets, but then we put them away. This past week, I pulled them out of a drawer and used some to make earrings. These are my favorite: and here are a couple more: and a couple more: All I knew about these beads was that they were old, but after comparing them with images of beads I have seen on line, they appear to be from the 1900s or as late as the 1950s. People in West Africa, especially in Ghana, still make these beads as part of their local industry, but ours seem to match the older warn beads that have been around long enough to get roughed up. For centuries, these beads have been made by grounding up scrap glass like old bottles or window panes and in some some cases Venetian glass beads, pouring the dry powder into molds, and firing the molds in kilns. In parts of Africa, beads were used as currency which m

I have discovered a new source for clothes—a catalog business called Deva Lifewear. Clearly from the image on their most recent catalog, the people at Deva Lifewear don't want to bother with first impressions or Photoshop skills. This eye-catching image drew me in immediately the way an accident along the highway makes you crane your head. Good lord, I said to myself. What are these frumpy people selling? They are selling comfortable clothes made with organic cotton and dyed with things like clay and beet juice. Their work force is mostly domestic in that they work from home, which is admirable. Their opening letter says, "With the durability of our fabrics and a focus on designs that never quite lose their fashionability, we strive to provide you with the best for less." Forgetting that "fashionability" isn't a real word, I love that they qualify their styles with the word "quite." They don't quite go out of fashion, but almost. "When a

I took my new camera out to the patio to see what I might see. Here is what I discovered: If you were a bird about to poop by the pool, and you looked up to see this very hungry owl glaring at you, would you feel encouraged to make your mess elsewhere? A butterfly beside the overgrown thyme. A snail being eaten alive by the overgrown oregano. A bug-eyed something escaping the chives that are being eaten alive by the overgrown oregano. It looks like the little blue bird has already been captured. Betsy McCall hiding by the fern in her rain gear because it has rained here every day since 1974.

Over the years, when my in-laws would get together, and the women would find themselves sitting in a room chatting, it was inevitable that my father-in-law would walk in at least once and ask, "What are you people talking about?" And someone would always say, "tampons." Of course we weren't actually talking about tampons, but the look of disgust on the man's face and his quick exit out of the room were worth the lie. Today, I am actually about to talk about feminine hygiene products, so if that's going to bother you, go to another room and come back later when the subject has changed. So, I bought a box of tampons, a brand that has a new package design, and it now has a tag line that reads "Pro Comfort." What on earth would possess a marketing team to think that's a good line for a box of tampons? And what does "pro" mean in this context? I wondered if it meant "for," the same way the Pope is for life as opposed to abort