My neighbor Jimbo wanted to give me a taste of his home and of his granny’s good cooking. “Y’ever hear of creazes?”

Creases? Croesus? As is often the case with southern idiom, I was lost. “Uh. . .what?”

Writing is, at least on the surface, a peculiar activity. For starters, it’s a deeply antisocial behavior whose end product provokes another antisocial behavior (i.e., reading) in others. For the practitioner it’s often inexplicable and for the casual observer utterly incomprehensible. And reasonably so, I’m inclined to believe.

On a cool October evening several years ago, a very peculiar and very particularly Charleston institution took fire.

Bright flames illumined the marshes along Sol Legare Creek with the brief flare of vanishing history; the smoke that rose from the Bowen's Island Restaurant fire took with it sixty years of accumulations, accretions, and thoroughly personalized accoutrement.

Like self-discipline, a taste for boiled peanuts is often said to be something that is 'acquired.'

Known for its food, natural beauty, climate, and historical charm, approximately 30 million visitors from all over the world co

In the interest of full disclosure, my first official act as Southern Foods Editor of
Wandering Educators will be to share a (possibly) stunning revelation: