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From a Cottage on St. Simon’s Island

I managed to scratch out a whole ten pages last week while I was home. Only ten. And THE FIXER-UPPER is due in September. So I ran away again, this time to my friend Chrys and Keith’s cottage on the Georgia coast. I can’t go to our own beach house yet, because it smells bad, and I wouldn’t get in that shower without a court order, not to mention that it has no furniture, and anyway, if I went there, I would be obsessed with trying to scrape up all that broken linoleum, and no writing would get done, whatsoever. But I did stop at Tybee on the way down here, to re-stock my booth at Seaside Sisters. Katie and I managed a little junking on Friday, and although the pickings were pretty slim, I did find an amazing antique glass battery case at an estate sale run by the wonderful Del and Ann and Myrtice. I’ve been going to their sales for probably 15 years or so. They are totally unflappable, and know tons about antiques. And they keep bugging me to put them in a book someday. And I’ll probably do it too–because I am a junk whore and would do almost anything to get a better deal at an estate sale. I snagged the battery case, but missed out on some gorgeous huge seashells. I felt better about things once I got home and looked up my find on Ebay–where somebody was peddling the EXACT same battery case for $85–not to mention $12 for shipping. I filled mine with some bleached out whelk shells and put a pricetag of $60 on it, and felt very virtuous about things. And if some lucky person doesn’t want to pay the sixty bucks, tough noogies. I’ll put it on the coffee table in my own house, and feel quite smug about the way these things work out. So after I priced and arranged, and dropped some stuff off at the house, I drove on down here to St. Simon’s. When I got to the grocery store I realized that I’d made a serious tactical error. I hadn’t bothered to buy groceries at home, and now it was Sunday–and that meant NO CHEAP CHARDONNAY. I felt like a skidrow bum staring helplessly at all those wine bottles at the Winn-Dixie, knowing they could not be purchased. So I went on to the cottage and fixed my ritualistic plate of spaghetti, which I slurped down with a bottle of cold water. Again, I felt virtuous. But not inspired enough to write. I did settle down and crank out ten pages earlier today. It’s blissfully quiet on this part of the island. The only interruption came when the septic tank guys arrived to destroy Keith and Chrys’s septic tank. They unloaded their bobcat, and snaked this giant hose around to the back yard, and I guess they started sucking out the sewage. Sweet Mary, Joseph and all the Saints! Pee-Yew. I thought being a novelist on deadline sucked, but no, being a novelist on deadline is a blessing. The suckiest job on the planet has got to be the job of the guys who have to suck out septic tanks. Thankfully, they decided they could not get their big bobcat in thru the small fence opening, so after they stank the place up pretty bad, they got back in their big red truck and drove off. That’s when I saw the sign on the side of their truck: “Number 1 at #2.” If you have to have a sucky job, I guess it’s good to have a sense of humor about these things. In the meantime, I have more spaghetti for dinner tonight–along with a chilled bottle of Jacob’s Creek Chardonnay from the Harris-Teeter–which was on sale for $4.50. Life don’t get much better. Tomorrow, if I get my page quota done by lunch, I get to go junking.

Weekend Hi-Jinks

This weekend Mr. Mary Kay and the Boomerang Boy and I travelled to the lovely college town of Sewanee for a goofy get-together/golf tournament called The Chaney Classic. This tournament, the fourth annual, was organized by our friend Mike, husband of posse member Jinxie. Mike has waaay too much time on his hands, but we love him anyway. Many players in this tournament were Mike’s classmates at Sewanee, but others, like our guys, are just hangers-on. The weekend goes like this: Friday afternoon, we gather for lunch, and the guys play a “practice round” while the wives do what we do best: shop. Friday night is the “pairings party”–an excuse to drink and dance to ’60s beach music, and eat and catch up. Saturday morning, the guys play golf, and we wives engage in competitive retail therapy. There is an actual prize for the woman with the highest receipts for the weekend. Jinxie added a new twist to the tradition this year, by requiring last year’s winning foursome to don the gaudiest, tackiest “ensembles” on earth. They were 100 percent polyester, with matching hats even. As I understand it, anything goes during the tournament, including the launching of water balloons at unsuspecting contestants, and the brandishing of super soakers (by the men in my family). While the guys were golfing, we went shopping in the lovely town of Franklin. This is a beautiful small town with loads of neat shops–including antique shops. I scored many goodies, including a wicker stork–or is it an ibis? Which will go in the beach house. Also, an art deco medicine cabinet, a coat rack for the beach house, and some other smalls. As we were heading back to Sewanee, I spotted a yard sale, which we’d actually noticed on our way into Franklin. There was a gorgeous old painted mantle leaning up against a tree, and some other things. I persuaded Jinxie (our driver) to stop, because the mantle would have great for the cottage at Sewanee. As luck would have it, the mantle was sold, but I did score a great enamel-top table for Maisy’s Daisy. When we got back to our rented cottage at Sewanee, we learned that MMK’s foursome had won the coveted Cheney Classic Purple Jackets, which were presented at that night’s awards banquet/hootenanny. Much hilarity reigned. And now, I’m back home again. Time to get back to the word wars. And by the way–I made my page quota for last week!

Small-town Fourth of July

We were home for the fourth. It felt nice. For the past two years we’ve been in my hometown of St. Petersburg, for funerals for my dad, two years ago, and my sister, last year. Last year we watched the fireworks from the beach, with my brothers and sister Patti and their families. It was bittersweet. This year we just wanted to be home. And we were. We started the day with our neighborhood parade, which we watched from my friend Susie’s front-yard. Susie set out plates of bagels and jams and fresh fruits. Dave, her husband, set up the bar with bloody marys and breakfast beer–what a way to start the day. Then we all sat out in folding chairs to watch the passing parade, joined by dozens of neighbors. Our town’s celebration is deliberately small-scale and corny. The kid’s swim team rode by on their bikes. A community supper club–they call themselves “the dinner conspiracy” marched by in chef’s hats, banging pot lids with wooden spoons. Dads pushed babies in strollers decked out in bunting. One group decorated a boat as a float decorated as a boat. Frail-looking World War II vets rode by in cars sponsored the the American Legion and VFW. There was an Uncle Sam on a unicycle, and a Kazoo Band which serenaded us with SHE’S A GRAND OLD FLAG, and my friend Mike and Jinxy’s vintage red convertible–Big Red, carried the city commissioners, driven by Mike, who got elected to the city commission earlier this year. We greeted Mike with all the dignity the office demands–by pelting him with water balloons and a Super Soaker fired from what our friend Jack called “the grassy knoll.” Then we went home and started preparing for the evening’s events. My sister-in-law Jeanne and I fried a mess of chicken. We started doing this years ago, when my mother was still living, under her watchful supervision. Jeanne’s version of fried chicken is–truthfully–even better than Mom’s. She marinades the chicken overnight in buttermilk spiked with Texas Pete hot sauce. Then we drain it and bread in a mixture of flour, seasonings, bread crumbs and Japanese Panko crumbs. We fry it for 14 minutes in hot peanut oil–Jeanne swears it gives a lighter taste, drain on paper towels, then leave in the oven, set at 250–until time for the covered dish supper. I also made a big bowl of my grandmother’s potato salad, devilled eggs, and a pan of Trailer Trash. Trailer Trash? This is a recipe cribbed from The Sweet Potato Queen’s cookbook. No bake, all fake. Delish!. You take a box of 12 ice cream sammiches. Don’t forget to unwrap. Place in bottom of a 9×12 foil pan. Drizzle over chocolate ice cream topping and caramel ice cream topping. Slather on a bunch of Cool Whip. Drizzle over more of the toppings. Garnish with a bag of Heath Bar chocolate-toffee bits. Cover with foil and stick in the freezer til supper. Mmm. Aunt Bea! We always have a covered dish supper at our house, and then go down to the lake to watch the fireworks. We spread out quilts on a neighbor’s lawn to watch. It was good to be home again.

From a coffee shop in Ellijay

I’m on day four of my solo writer’s retreat at my friend Shay’s cabin in the North Georgia mountains. Thank heavens Shay doesn’t have internet access up there. There is absolutely nothing to do except write, nap, and read. The first morning, I got up, wandered out to the front porch, and stared straight into the face of an amused doe who was munching on some pine seedlings. She flicked her tail, like she didn’t care, and ambled off. When I went out to the back porch, another deer was dining on a different stand of undergrowth. It’s hot even on the mountain. So that night, right at twilight, when I took my glass of wine out to the front porch, I saw the same doe, having her dinner. I’ve been writing away, and it is so GOOD to have my head back in this book. If I make my daily page quota by noon, I’m allowed to go down the mountain to Ellijay. I found this coffee shop, Bear Creek, I think it’s called, and they have iced tea and internet access, so I can email my chapters to my editor and agent, and catch up with the rest of the world. Yesterday, I even did a little junking before heading back to work. There are lots of nice antique shops up here. In between chapters, I’ve been reading one of my favorite authors, Susan Isaacs. The book I’m reading–and loving–is called PAST PERFECT. I’ve loved lots of Susan’s other work, including COMPROMISING POSITIONS, AFTER ALL THESE YEARS and LILY WHITE, and SHINING THROUGH, (trust me–the book was just waaaay better than the movie with the totally miscast Melanie Griffith) and this most recent book is just as delicious. It’s great to read her while I’m writing, because I get so jealous of her work that I try harder to be better at what I do.I don’t worry about imitating her, even unconsciously, because our work is so different, so it’s just a total joy. Tomorrow, if I’m extra productive for the rest of today and tonight, I get to go home and go to an estate sale. Yay!

Full House

Boomerang Boy is back. The house he was renting was yanked out from under him. So now a box of his groceries is sitting in the dining room, along with a bin of his laundry. His dresser is on the back porch. Since his former room is now occupied by his sister and brother-in-law, he will be bunking in the upstairs guest room–for the short term, I hope. In the meantime, Wyatt let us know how he felt about all the turmoil around here by peeing on the rug in the downstairs bedroom. To ease my angst we rented a chick flick. FOOL’S GOLD. Yes, I deliberately rented a movie just so that I could stare at Matthew McConaughey’s bare chest. I’m not proud of it, but there you are. Cheap thrills. PS. The movie sucked, no surprise. Tomorrow, I plan to run away. No, really. Seriously. I’m heading for the hills–specifically to my friend Shay’s house in the North Georgia mountains. Just me and the laptop and a biiig bottle of cheap chardonnay. Fifty pages or bust!

Live from Galax, Va.

I’m sitting under a tent on the main street of Galax, Va. listening to old-timey bluegrass music. Galax is blessed with a wonderful independent bookstore called Chapters, and did I mention they have antiques? What a charming, quaint little town. I did some junking this morning and scored a chenille bedspread and a granitewear pan. Could have bought a lot more stuff–except I have to fly home in the morning, and Delta doesn’t like it when you try to haul too much stuff on board. I’m staying at a delightful bed and breakfast called The Doctor’s Inn. Owner Brenda Stamey is a live-wire and wonderful hostess. For breakfast this morning she fixed praline french toast, which is a Paula Deen recipe–so you know it was buttery and sweet–and delish. Tonight I’m doing an “author talk.” In the meantime, I’m enjoying the cool, green mountains of Virginia. When I get home I’ll post my photos of the goings-on here. Gotta love a festival that includes a pony ride, deep-fried candybars, and of course, music, music, music. Oh yeah. I got to hug on Clifford the Big Red Dog!

I’m a shooting star…

Paula Deen’s Magazine staffers Sarah and May came to visit on Thursday, to interview and “shoot” me for an upcoming issue of the magazine. Which meant I had to take myself over to see Doug at Douglas & Co., my long-time hairdresser. Doug fixed my hair so I did not look like the back-end of a poodle, and Katie fixed my makeup. I did manage to dress myself. They’re going to include a recipe with the story about me, so Katie, who is taking a cake-decorating class with her two best friends from parochial school, baked the tomato soup chocolate cake from DEEP DISH. The cake looked gorgeous with a fluted border of cream-cheese frosting, and a sprig of deep blue hydrangea from my neighbor Susie’s backyard. Me? I just looked like a fixed-up version of me. Sarah, the photographer, spent hours painstakingly shooting the cake, styled just-so on our dining room table, me pretending to eat the cake, me in the sunroom and me on the front porch. That’s Sarah and me above, on the front porch. I used to go on photo shoots years ago when I was a newspaper reporter, but I’d forgotten how long a magazine shoot can take–which in our case, was close to five hours. But the girls, who’d driven over from Birmingham, where the magazine is published, were very sweet and lots of fun. There they are, above, viewing the shots Sarah had just taken on their laptop. Lawwd, technology has changed so much from my newspaper days–which ended 17 years ago. In the old day, when we went on an out-of-town assignment, my photographer and I would drive to the nearest Greyhound bus station, or airport, and ship the film back to the newspaper office in Atlanta, where the film would be processed and the pictures printed. It was just barely a step up from scratching pictures on a stone tablet! Paula’s magazine, the girls were telling me, is now the highest-circulating food magazine in the business, even surpassing BON APPETIT. You should be able to see the photos and story sometime next spring/summer.

Too darn hot!

My home office is in a converted sunporch on the upstairs back of our 1926 Craftsman bungalow. All those windows mean I have a great view of my back-door neighbor Susie’s glorious garden, which is currently a riot of blue hydrangeas. I can also check on Wyatt, Weezie, and my grand-dog Tybee, who is currently staying with us. The bad news is that the office has a Southern exposure, and no insulation, which means it’s broiling hot in summer and cold in winter. So I’ve mostly been writing on my laptop downstairs. Trying to keep cool and save gas money, I’m trying to have at least one or two no-drive days a week, and also trying not to use the oven. Making lots of tuna salad and devilled eggs. After our weekend trip down to Tybee, we brought back a mess of gorgeous wild Georgia shrimp. For dinner, I improvised a shrimp louis salad–and all modesty aside, it was pretty darned yummy. After boiling shrimp with Old Bay seasoning, quartered lemons and half a can of beer, I made a bed of shredded lettuce, and topped it with chopped tomatoes, cucumbers, red peppers and hard-boiled eggs. I mounded roughly chopped shrimp on top of this, and added a dressing made from 1/4 cup low-fat mayo (Duke’s, natch!) 2 Tbsp. bottled chili sauce, 1 Tbsp. dijon mustard, 1 Tbsp. lemon juice and some lemon zest. Ladled the dressing over the shrimp and then sprinkled chopped green onions over all. I wish I’d had an avocado to add, and I’ll definitely do this next time. My favorite book find of the summer is MARY EMMERLING’S BEACH COTTAGES. I’ve always loved Mary’s work in various shelter magazines, including COUNTRY HOME, and also her books. This new book is full of wonderful beach cottages–from humble shacks to glorious Hamptons mini-manses. And guess what? As I was drooling over the photos, there, on page 179, I find a listing of Beach Reads. The list includes books by Carl Hiassen, James Patterson, Sebastian Junger, Nicholas Sparks, Anita Shreve, and….Mary Kay Andrews! SAVANNAH BREEZE! I let out a happy screech that startled Mr. Mary Kay almost (not quite) out of his sound sleep. Check it out!

In honor of summer

Here’s a funny sent to me by my friend Tacky Jacky. Enjoy!

BBQ RULES We are about to enter the summer and BBQ season. Therefore it is important to refresh your memory on the etiquette of this sublime outdoor cooking activity, as it’s the only type of cooking a ‘real’ man will do, probably because there is an element of danger involved. When a man volunteers to do the BBQ the following chain of events are put into motion: Routine… (1) The woman buys the food. (2) The woman makes the salad, prepares the vegetables, and makes dessert. (3) The woman prepares the meat for cooking, places it on a tray along with the necessary cooking utensils and sauces, and takes it to the man who is lounging beside the grill – beer in hand. Here comes the important part: (4) THE MAN PLACES THE MEAT ON THE GRILL. More routine…. (5) The woman goes inside to organize the plates and cutlery. (6) The woman comes out to tell the man that the meat is burning. He thanks her and asks if she will bring another beer while he deals with the situation. Important again: (7) THE MAN TAKES THE MEAT OFF THE GRILL AND HANDS IT TO THE WOMAN. More routine…. (8) The woman prepares the plates, salad, bread, utensils, napkins, sauces, and brings them to the table. (9) After eating, the woman clears the table and does the dishes. And most important of all: (10) Everyone PRAISES the MAN and THANKS HIM for his cooking efforts. (11) The man asks the woman how she enjoyed ‘her night off.’ And, upon seeing her annoyed reaction, concludes that there’s just no pleasing some women….

May means Mothers Day and Grads

It was a very special weekend for our family. Thursday, I flew to Phoenix with Mr. Mary Kay and the Boomerang Boy to attend our daughter Katie’s graduation from Arizona State University. We were met here by my son-in-law Mark’s family, who were also here for this great occasion. This is an event that has been eight years in the making. Katie started school at the University of Missouri, which is where she met Mark, who is a Missouri boy. She dropped out of Mizzou in the middle of her junior year, eventually moved back to Atlanta, where she worked at various jobs before returning to school at a local community college. After the kids got married and moved to Phoenix, Katie attended a community college here before moving on to Arizona State. Thursday night we had a big family dinner out, and the kids gave Jane and I our mother’s day gifts–a spa day! Friday we lolled around the Lamar Day Spa here in Phoenix, where we were treated to facials, massages, pedicures, and for me, a haircut and color. What a relaxing experience. This morning, we loaded up the rental car and motored over to Wells Fargo Arena, where we were thrilled to cheer for our girl. Katie graduated with a B.A. in interdisciplinary studies, with concentrations in communications and journalism. Next stop–Atlanta–where Mark has accepted a job, and where Katie is job hunting. Now, if anybody reading this would like to buy an ADORABLE home in Chandler, AZ. you should definitely email me care of this blog. Did I mention the house is ADORABLE? And that, said buyer would be entitled, by buying said house, not only to an ADORABLE house, but also, a lifetime of free Mary Kay Andrews books? I mention this because, until said house is sold, Katie and Mark, and their dog Tybee, will be residing at Chez Mary Kay, in the room recently vacated by Boomerang Boy, who has decamped to a rental house nearby. This would bring the dog population at Chez Mary Kay up to THREE, which may or may not be in violation of county ordinances. In the meantime, tomorrow, I start the great American junk roadtrip with my friend Beth. We are motoring up to the Brimfield Antique Market in Mass., where I hope to score lots of primo junk, and where I also hope to send back dispatches and photos. Happy Mom’s Day to All!