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Greetings from Carrboro, I went with Dolly. In the end, how could I resist an advent calendar that features the Queen of Nashville as a beatified Mrs. Claus? And I assumed that Dolly Parton would never sanction crappy sweets. Though I must say, somehow I did miss the cultural shift when the repertoire of advent […]

Greetings from Carrboro, Fond memories, like the proverbial sleeping dog, should be left happily alone. Back there somewhere in a nostalgic, hazy glow where they can be safely enjoyed from a distance. The risk in revisitation is the possibility of a rather large, irreparable crack in your rose-colored glasses. Most of my forays into this […]

Greetings from Carrboro, I must have been twelve or thirteen; it’s hard to say exactly. But sometime pre-Reagan I became a part-time bartender. For my parents. And I made exactly three drinks. Vodka martinis – with a twist or olives, Old-Fashioneds, and Manhattans. All of them were served on the rocks in rather hefty, rather […]

Greetings from Carrboro, Some things should clearly be left behind. Maybe ‘discarded’ is a better word. It’s something I struggle with. Obviously. Remnants of previous aspirations are strewn haphazardly throughout my daily life – little barbs of reminiscent guilt tucked away to unceremoniously surprise me when I stumble upon them. The dust-covered bike I bought […]

Greetings from Carrboro, I put salt on watermelon. A friend swears by pickles slathered in peanut butter. The world is awash in such illicit alliances – combinations that don’t make sense until they most certainly and unequivocally do. Fried grasshoppers with guacamole, anyone? And honestly, the unholy combos only make sense after they’re tried. You […]

Greetings from Carrboro, I assume that we all suffer from it; tell me if I’m wrong. There’s the me who should clean out the closets and the me who, instead, orders the latest book about home organization from Amazon while watching House of the Dragon. Similarly, a friend determines he should get in shape and buys a treadmill. […]

Greetings from Carrboro, My parents somehow got a cat. And a dozen downed trees in their front yard. That was Hurricane Hugo. And three days after Katrina, Acme got a talented sous chef (and family) for a month or so after their home and livelihood in New Orleans was destroyed overnight. They packed everything they […]

Greetings from Carrboro, The baggy chile pepper pants are gone. Along with the equally fashionable pasta pants. Thankfully. And I haven’t seen someone wearing kitchen clogs in a hot minute, though Crocs continue to make regular appearances. The tall poofy toques – à la Chef Boyardee – never were a thing in any restaurant where […]