If you follow The Revivalist on Facebook or Twitter, you might have seen a photo of a hamburger this week…wait, let me rephrase…you might have seen a photo of the rockinest hamburger ever this week.

 

No pink slime, no heat lamps, no freezer burn on this patty. This was one of the freshest pieces of meat I’ve ever seen. I ordered it at Local Roots, a farm to table restaurant in Roanoke, Virginia, where the folks aren’t kidding about local.

 

The menu actually names farms where the dishes originate. The duck breast is from Crescent Farms, the bison from Hollow Hill Farm. In the fifteen minutes between ordering my burger and its delivery, I probably could have driven to the pasture where it was raised, shook hands with the farmer, and met its cow cousins.

 

And it’s not just the meat that’s local. This super-duper burger was topped with a nose thrilling, breath killing aioli made with fresh, locally harvested ramps. Whoever combed Virginia's forests for these beauties deserves a reward and a big hug. The ramps were the centerpiece of one amazing sauce. It made the meal, and every time I saw the delectable, light green smear of it in the photo online, my mouth would fill with saliva and my stomach would leap with excitement.

 

By Thursday, I’d had enough. I picked up the phone and called Local Roots. When Diane Elliot, the owner, first answered the line, I sped through my name and the name of the website, all in one big word…

 

Marklynnfergusonfromtherevivalistwordfromtheappalachiansouth

 

She barely had time to say, “Ah, okay,” before I started glowing about the hamburger and its special sauce. “The meat was incredible and the bun, perfect, and that ramp aioli was just out of this world. Really, great. And I’m wondering if you’d be willing the share the recipe, to publish it on my site.”

 

She didn’t have a chance to respond before I added, “Not the recipe for the whole burger. Just the recipe for the aioli. I mean, I could make a meal out of it by itself. Ha! It was, seriously, that good.”

 

Yes, I laughed at my own joke in the middle there. When I finally stopped talking, I heard no response, so I added, “I bet the folks who read The Revivalist would love it too.”

 

I don’t think Diane knew whether it was safe to speak or not. After a long pause, presumably waiting to see if I would start gushing again, she hesitantly said, “Uhm, yeah, could you hold for a minute?”

 

“Of course,” I said, enthusiastically, like I’d been waiting all day to listen to some hold music. There was a clunk as Diane sat the phone down but no tunes. All I could hear was a busy, restaurant—the thud of pans being hoisted from surface to surface, silverware clattering as tables were set, someone reciting the night’s specials.

 

I listened to this cacophony and realized that I’d made one stupid mistake. I’d called at the worst possible time. Diane and her crew were less than an hour away from their dinnertime opening, and there I was, asking about posting a recipe, which, when you think about, is a precious thing to a restauranteur. Recipes are Diane's bread and butter, and I wanted her to put one on a website that she probably hadn't read and probably couldn’t name because I’d said it so dang fast.

 

“I should just let her get back to work,” I thought, hovering my finger over the “End” button, but I thought better of it. Hanging up would only compound the rudeness, so I waited, doodling tight circles on the notepad in front of me and listening to the bustle at the other end of the line. The phone clunked again, and Diane was back. “I talked to the chef,” she said politely but fast, as if we had been talking all along, “and we’re okay with that. It’s fine.”

 

“Oh, really,” I asked unable to hide my surprise. I wasn’t sure if she was saying yes because she liked the idea or if she just needed to get this strangely eager man off of her phone. Either way, I took it!

 

I jotted down the ingredients and directions before she had a chance to change her mind and thanked her about twenty times. Diane was already a hero for making this delightful dish; now she’s a saint for sharing it.

 

So from Saint Diane and the kitchen at Local Roots, I am proud to present ramps aioli, a recipe that originated in the forests of Southwest Virginia and that was procured through a food addict’s enthusiasm.

 

 ***

 

LOCAL ROOTS RAMPS AIOLI

 

Ingredients:

 

2 egg yolks

4 cloves of garlic confit

chopped ramps to taste

1 cup extra virgin olive oil

2 teaspoons lemon juice

1 teaspoon of lemon zest

1 teaspoon of dijon mustard

 

Directions:

 

Have your ingredients at room temperature. In a blender, add the egg yolks, garlic cloves, and ramps. You might start off light on the ramps. They've got kick, and you can always add more as you taste the sauce.

 

Cover and blend at medium speed until smooth. With the blender running, remove the small cap on your lid and slowly drizzle in half of the olive oil.

 

Stop the blender and scrape down the sides of the jar. Cover.

 

Return to medium speed. Remove the small cap and add the lemon juice, the lemon zest, the mustard, and the remaining olive oil. As the sauce thickens, stop the blender to scrape down the sides again and taste.

 

Not rampy enough?

 

Gradually add more ramps until the aioli is light green and perfectly pungent. Blend until thick. Chill and serve.

Sniff. Smell that?
It's like garlic and super-charged onions. It makes your mouth water and your nose run all at once. You're on a springtime hike, and suddenly everything stinks. It's a crazy smell, both awful and awfully wonderful at the same time. You can't resist inhaling a big noseful. It's like markers or gasoline fumes; you know you shouldn't enjoy the odor but there you are, sniffing again. It's irresistible.
You look around, trying to figure out what is putting off this beguiling scent. That's when you spot stiff green sprouts sticking from the forest floor.
Ah-hah! You've got it. You've stumbled upon wild ramps.
Now you have to decide--do you run like you're being chased by dogs or load up your backpack like you've found gold?
[caption id="attachment_5451" align="alignright" width="241"] Photo Provided by Darya Pino.[/caption]
(Hint: Backpack. Go with the backpack!)
These odiferous sprigs have been a culinary delight since native Americans ruled the region. Today, they are sought after by chefs nationwide.
Find them in the wild, and they don't cost a penny but sure taste like a million bucks. A kind of leek, they're a distinctive replacement for onions or their cousin the store-bought leek. You can fry them with potatoes, scramble them with eggs, add them to a casserole, or pickle them and enjoy them year round.

HOW TO FORAGE RAMPS

WHERE TO BUY RAMPS
Ramp Farm Specialties: This West Virginia company is the only ramp farm in the world.
Earthy Delights: This Michigan company claims to be "where great chefs buy" foraged foodstuff.
MOUTH WATERING RAMP RECIPES
Ramp and Buttermilk Biscuits: Mmmmm fancy biscuits.
Spring Ramps and Rainbow Trout: Love any recipe that tells me to have a mess of something.
Pickled Ramps: With commentary from Russian/New England/North Appalachian/New York blogger, Olga Massov.
Grilled Ramp and Asparagus Quiche: From Ms. Martha Stewart nonetheless!
APPALACHIAN RAMP FESTIVALS
Ramp Tramp Festival, Polk County, Tennessee: Bluegrass, crafts, and an optional tramp up the side of a mountain in search of ramps.
West Virginia Gazette: Lists more than a dozen events across The Mountain State.
Whitetop Mountain Ramp Festival, Whitetop, Virginia: Perhaps my favorite; this one culminates in a ramp eating contest at more than 5,000 feet.

Remember the Mountain Traditions Project, the new series of documentary shorts that was announced a couple of weeks back?
Well, the first two clips are up. One features Amy Fabbri, a dulcimer player and keeper of old time tunes. The other profiles a group of homesteaders in Western Maryland.
Take a gander, and tell us what you think.
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You might also like Does Mountain Living Make You Smarter?

Boston is a hard town. For all its culture and history, the people can be coarse. They drive like maniacs and barely acknowledge you when you walk into stores or purchase tokens for the subway.
I moved there after college. It was my first time living north of the Mason Dixon, and I took their ill demeanor personally. I thought maybe it was my accent; maybe I didn't look right; maybe folks thought I was trying too hard when I greeted them with a goofy smile and an extended palm.
Some days it felt like the entire city hated me, like I'd somehow offended four and a half million people. That's when I would tuck tail and go find the one thing that brought me comfort--a heaping, creamy mound of lightly-peppered, heavily salted, really mayonnaisey potato salad.
It had to be from Redbones Barbecue. They made it just like my grandma with no mustard and plenty of onion. I'd lift that first bite to my mouth, and I swear it was like Jean Perdue, my momma's momma, was wrapping her arms around me. It was magical. Love on a fork. A hug from seven hundred miles away.
Food is like that. It can bend space and time. Nobody knows that better than today's guest-writer, Joyce Pinson. She talks about food the way most of us talk about a love affair. Joyce is downright gleeful when she describes candied grapefruit peels. She glows over pumpkin fudge. She finds joy in every dish, which is why she's a lady in demand. With a soon-to-be-syndicated food column, frequent radio appearances, and a mouth-watering blog, Friends Drift Inn, she must barely breathe. Still, she found time to tell us about a treat that transports her. For Joyce, sorghum sugar cookies are like a visit home.

*

Five generations ago, my family fled Appalachia. War was brewing. The cholera epidemic had claimed too many youngins. The folks were bitterly split between supporting Confederate interests and a love of the Republic.
It is said you can take the people out of Appalachia, but you cannot take Appalachia from the people. Growing up near Cincinnati, I never knew my mountain roots. The family did not talk about our connections to the hills. In my mind, we had always lived along the beautiful Ohio River farming on rich bottom lands growing vegetables, pruning orchards, and tending bees. But my young eyes did not miss the "oddities" that set our family apart from others in the river community.
There was a preoccupation with growing cushaws and goose beans. Planting had to be done by the signs, as did canning.  Foraging was the norm, harvesting mint, poke greens, dandelions, pawpaws, and nuts. We fished. We hunted. The kitchen floor was often cleared as Grandma and Grandpa danced, sometimes the Charleston and sometimes something they called "a cloggin." There was an amulet; a hawk's clawed foot that Grandpa had given Grandma as some sort of secret token.
For whatever reason, the family chose to hide their ties to Appalachia. But sit down at Grandma's table, and the history was there for the hungry. A mainstay ingredient, sorghum, was considered a pantry staple. Grandma served it on biscuits.  Sorghum was drizzled on corn cakes. It was the secret ingredient in Grandpa's Caramel Blackberry Jam Cake, a recipe so rich only the tiniest of slivers was all that was needed to satisfy the tummy and the lost soul.
Sorghum, thick rich rivers of sorghum, flowed from the mountain kin to Grandma's kitchen and Grandpa's produce stand in a telltale stream of Appalachian goodness. Perhaps it was fate that brought me to live amongst the mysterious mountains of Pike County's Appalachia. But after five generations of being away, somehow I know that the restless spirits of my ancestors are now are at peace. I think they are happy to be with me on the banks of Johns Creek.
When cold winter days vex my spirit, I turn to the kitchen and to the pantry where sorghum is still a constant. Sorghum cookies, crisp with a mysterious sweet richness and depth of flavor coupled with a hot cup of tea soothes my longing for the warm days of harvest. Sorghum cookies takes me back to the Ohio River Valley...and brings those that came before me home to the mountains. The circle is complete.

Maybe you caught it when it originally aired, but I just discovered Bizarre Foods Appalachia. With a title like that, I expected to endure an hour's worth of possum jokes, but as it turns out, the Travel Channel has produced a true salute to the wide ranging food traditions in Appalachia. All of the dishes are demonstrated by locals, from Swiss decendants cooking pfeffernusse to Native American's baking up bear...the modern way.
So grab your chestnut grubs and liver mush and pay attention. You might learn something new about local eats.
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Just two blocks from the front door of my row house in Washington, DC, I can find wild morels, scampering foxes, woodpeckers, and silvery alewives, all set in 1,700 acres of forestland. I picked my condo partially because it is so close to Rock Creek Park. Within about five minutes, I can leave the city's blare--honking horns, construction, irate people yelling, blasting music--and stand atop a ridge where all I hear is the rustle of leaves and creaking old trees.
Up there, it's common for the nearest creature to have four long legs and a tuft of white on its tail. I run across deer in the park all the time. They nibble and stroll, ignoring me entirely. These deer are accustomed to people. They live in the middle of the nation's seventh largest metro area, and they seem content enough. I think so, at least, until I see a clip like this one.
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This poor buck was struck by a car in Rock Creek Park. Unfortunately, it didn't finish him off. I imagine that he lasted for hours or days, limping through the woods before succumbing to his wounds.
Put deer and people in the same environment, and accidents will happen. There's no avoiding them, but we can minimize the number of long-suffering deaths like this one (not to mention the harm and expense that comes to drivers). Municipalities just need to take smart steps to keep their deer in check.
DC isn't doing much along those lines, but the fine state of West Virginia sure is. Multiple cities and towns in the Mountain State allow deer hunting during short windows. In fact, this weekend kicks off Morgantown's first urban deer hunt. On select parcels of land, including West Virginia University's organic farm, dairy farm and arboretum, bow hunters can help cull the town's deer population.
This is a humane way to manage deer, and in Morgantown, it also helps hungry families. The Charleston Gazettereports that hunters can donate the resulting venison to the needy. Backwoods Taxidermy will butcher the deer for free and wrap the meat for area soup kitchens and shelters.
As municipalities consider hunts, I imagine that this charitable twist is a great way to gain local support. It makes deer hunting palatable for even the most ardent Bambi lovers.

You may know about Steven Hopp. He is the furry-faced husband of author Barbara Kingsolver. The couple, along with their teenaged daughter, co-wrote the 2007 bestseller "Animal, Vegetable, Miracle: A Year of Food Life," which documents the family's attempt to grow their own food for a year. Anything they couldn't grow, they bought locally in Southwest Virginia.
The book is a charmer, and, by all accounts, so is the couple. I particularly like this 2008 interview, in which Kingsolver gets big laughs talking about turkey sex and the zucchini industrial complex.
Apparently, though, it takes more than a winning personality and literary fame to build a locally grown movement in Meadowview, Virginia. A recent article in The New York Times focused on Hopp's struggle to attract diners to the Harvest Table, which promotes itself as "the most dedicated farm-to-table restaurant in Southwestern Virginia."
"The 50-seat Harvest Table has not yet turned a profit," said The Times, "Over the past several years, it has struggled to build a fan base among the area’s predominantly blue-collar residents for whom the average annual income is $15,750, and many of whom view local and organic food as out of reach."
At first, I was surprised to read this. Given the proliferation of farm stands and farmers' markets throughout Southwest Virginia, this restaurant seemed like a natural extension. People buy locally grown produce to eat at home; why wouldn't they want it when they eat out?
Then I took a closer look at the restaurant. It's a "downtown" restaurant, located in a renovated building in Meadowview's town center. It serves frittatas and artisan cheese plates in a community that is not only low income but rural. I started to wonder if its challenges are as much cultural as they are economic.
I should pause here and note that the title of The New York Times article is "Local Food Has Been No Easy Sell in Appalachia." Clearly, it hasn't been an easy sell in Meadowview, Virginia. To find out about the rest of the region, I called a couple of other restaurants that promote their commitment to locally grown food.
[caption id="attachment_4049" align="alignleft" width="234"] Diners at Local Roots[/caption]
First, I spoke with Brian Sallade, General Manager at Local Roots in Roanoke. This restaurant is also located in Southwest Virginia but in a metro area of about 300,000 people. I asked Sallade, point blank, "Can you make it as a restaurant serving locally grown food in Appalachia?"
"I definitely think so," he said, noting that it's a new idea but that interest is growing. "There are definitely more people on board. Some people say that they will only eat at our restaurant because they know where their food is coming from."
The Local Roots menu is actually a little more costly than the menu at Harvest Table. At Local Roots, entrees start at $17. At Harvest Table, you can get a burger platter for $7. The Roanoke-based restaurant, however, has the advantage of a larger, more diverse customer base. Sallade said that it's not unusual to have business people dine in groups of ten or more. That's not likely to happen at Harvest Table.
Hoping to get another small town perspective, I rang Leslie Hotaling, Co-owner of Panorama at the Peak in the West Virginia arts town of Berkeley Springs. With clinking glass and the bustle of a busy dinning room in the background, she said, "There's a resurgence of diners looking for locally grown food. I think the days of processed food are coming to an end."
[caption id="" align="alignright" width="240"] Salad at Panorama at the Peak[/caption]
Her bold outlook seems to be paying off. Panorama at the Peak is in its sixth year and was just awarded the Snail of Approval award from Slow Food D.C. This recognition made me wonder if the restaurant's proximity to D.C. underpins its success. Hotaling says that it's a factor, but that "local guests are 75 percent of our clientele."
This brings me back to the cultural question. In Appalachia, you have both locavores and what I'll call McDonaldvores. The former seek out locally grown food or are, at least, open to it when they find it. There seem to be enough of them in Appalachian cities and in funky towns like Berkeley Springs to sustain local food restaurants.
Meadowview, by contrast, sounds like the land of McDonaldvores, people who'd rather eat at a restaurant with a known brand and ample parking. Many of my relatives fall into this category. When I visit home in the Blue Ridge, dining out can be a source of tension. I usually advocate for a locally-owned downtown restaurant. They want to hit the IHOP. It's not because they don't see the value of keeping dollars local. They just want to eat somewhere familiar, where they don't have to jockey for parking, and where they see themselves fitting in.
I think that this distinction is missed by The New York Times. It pins the troubles at Harvest Table on first, the cost of the restaurant's food and second, some Appalachian aversion to eating local.
The article actually gets a little urban-uppity when it says "in the heart of Appalachia, where there isn’t a critical mass of suppliers or customers for whom the term 'locavore' rolls naturally off the tongue, the restaurant remains something of a curiosity" and that Harvest Table would be "an instant hit in a progressive, urban enclave like Brooklyn or Berkeley, Calif."
I posit that the restaurant would also be a hit in Roanoke, Berkeley Springs, Asheville, Berea, or any other Appalachian locale with locavore tendencies. You don't have to go to New York or California to find a market.
What's more, I would wager that even in Meadowview, plenty of people spend $7 on a burger or more. They just do so at Applebee's or Outback Steak House, not at an independently owned restaurant in a historic building with a vegetable garden out back. As much I love spots like these, they're not for everyone.
So the challenge for Hopp and maybe for the local foods movement in general is this--how do you get folks who'll buy tomatoes at a farm stand (which is just about everyone in Southwest Virginia) to stop at a restaurant that specializes in locally grown food?
Do you need to reposition the marketing, downplaying "locally grown" and playing-up more mainstream attributes like "convenience" or "family friendly"?
Should locally grown restaurants try relocating to malls?
Does someone need to launch a locally grown franchise with consistent branding, major ad buys and big signs?
What will it take to transition the locally grown movement from a niche concept that works in select markets to a mainstream option that thrives anywhere?
I don't begin to have the answers, but I bet you can think of some. Share your ideas for getting more people to eat local, or if you don't think it's going to happen, tell us why.

As you might recall, planting a city garden is one way I bring a little bit of Appalachia into my east coast life. Well, things are a growing like mad. The corn has silk; the beans are big and drooping down to the dirt; we've already eaten one tomato; and the carrots are crowding each other out. (Probably should have thinned them more.)
See the progress for yourself in these nifty night time shots.

With a doggie in the backseat and an old time gospel tune on our tongues, Ryan and I drove past the long arm of DC this week and into the waiting mountains. Our destination was further afield than usual. We barreled past Harrisonburg, past Staunton, past Lexington, and into the familiar terrain of the Roanoke Valley, where we stopped long enough for big hugs from Mother. It was a quick visit--20 minutes tops--and we were back on I-81. We had more asphalt to cover.
In Southwest Virginia, we passed the tornado-ravaged remains of Glade Springs, a heart wrenching ghost town with roofs and trees stripped bare. We fell silent with open mouths and heads waving back in forth to take in the destruction, which spanned both sides of the highway.
Less than forty-five minutes later, a decaying guitar-shaped building restored our smiles at the Tennessee border. It was a strange remnant of someone's kooky vision.
After a short drive, we crossed a second state line and into the great, green expanse of Pisgah National Forest. I was surprised to see it broken by a six lane highway. It seemed a bit oversized in my estimation and cheapened the view. I started worrying for the wildlife that tried to cross it and had to remind myself that the forest is a 500,000 acre expanse of protected land. Most resident critters are safe from our whizzing tires.
We emerged from Pisgah in a steep incline that deposited us right where we wanted to be--Asheville, the land of locally grown produce, organically harvested veggies, and a thousand humanely raised meals. We've been eating ever since.
Mayfel's

We started with breakfast for dinner (a tradition in my family) at Mayfel's, a Southern restaurant with a generous patio. Our seats fronted the town square where a massive Friday night drum circle was pounding. While we coated the table and our cheeks with powdered sugar from our beignets, a hundred hippie-types--dreadlocked teens and long haired earth mothers--banged their drums and spun like dervishes. It was the perfect accompaniment to the rhythm of our chewing.
We scarfed down biscuits with gravy, eggs, grits, and bacon, finishing it all off with banana pudding, made by someone who knew the key to this dish--don't serve it too soon. The vanilla wafers had been soaking in the pudding's moisture for at least a day. They were as soft as the bananas. Just right.
Chorizo
The next day, we explored downtown with an eye for dog-friendly options. As it turns out, they abound. Every restaurant with a patio seems to allow four-legged friends, and a shopkeep told me to assume that all stores do as well. He said, "Just walk in with the dog and ask. Nearly everyone will say 'yes.'"
As it turned out, the pup was the easiest part about dining. With the Memorial Day rush, we encountered long waits everywhere. It probably burnt more time in the end, but we bounced from eatery-to-eatery, smiling politely when we were told, "It will be forty minutes," and moving to the next.
We lucked out when we paused to buy a handmade peach popsicle from a street vendor. We were standing next to the patio at Chorizo, which resides in the breathtaking Grove Arcade, an ornate market building from 1929 which today houses restaurants and upscale shops. While we munched our frozen treat, I admired bowls full of chunky guacamole and golden, shining tortilla chips that were clearly homemade. A couple stood up and a table opened. I rushed the hostess. With popsicle in my mouth, I asked if anyone was waiting for it. Startled, she shook her head and said, "No."
I think she saw the hunger in my face, because she added, "I'll get silverware."
As soon as the table was clean, I waved Ryan and the dog over. We settled in for a cilantro-ladden lunch. The chips were as good as they looked, fresh-baked and crisp with just the right amount of salt, something large-grained, sea salt or maybe kosher. The menu was pan-latin, offering everything from pork enchiladas to steak pupusas. I chose a Spanish crepe filled with talapia and onions and dripping with cheese. It came with amazing mashed sweet potatoes and refried beans. Ryan went with a fresh salad topped with generous slabs of avocado and two fried eggs. It wasn't health food but it was fresh, thoughtfully prepared, and, most importantly, filling.
Clingman Cafe
Rather than leave breakfast to chance today, I called ahead. Clingman Cafe had solid online reviews, a dog friendly patio, and they told me that there was no wait. They were right. It's off the beaten path in Asheville's emerging River Arts District, an area filled with warehouses turned artist studios. The patrons seemed to be all locals and the staff had great tattoos--both good signs. We got a seat right away and began chowing.
The country ham and egg sandwich with chipotle mayo was a treat; the kick from the chipotle paired nicely with the salt  from the ham. I decided to go for the full savory experience and ordered a chai. When combined with the sandwich, it left my taste buds dancing.
After my plate was clean, I sat with the dog at my feet, digesting in this slow paced neighborhood eatery, and eavesdropped as folks at nearby tables discussed art, dog training, and feminine independence--the full range of progressive topics all covered in deep Appalachian drawls.
The Bavarian Restaurant & Biergarten
Now, I am sitting outside our tiny log rental cabin. It is one of about a dozen at The Log Cabin Motor Court on the outskirts of Asheville. We picked this place because it is odd yet cozy. Built as a roadside novelty in the 1930s, the motor court has been providing smiles and clean, affordable accommodations for about eighty years. Nowadays, it also provides unexpected German treats.
At the front of the motor lodge, along Route 19 sits the largest of the cabins, the home to The Bavarian Restaurant & Bierdarten, where we dined tonight, outdoors, at one of six picnic tables. They are covered by oversized umbrellas and surrounded by clutter--garden gnomes, a mess of thriving and dying plants, restaurant-sized outdoor grills, and decaying flower boxes.
The restaurant is quirky at best, dumpy at worst, but the food makes up for it. Our homemade bread was perfectly crusty on the outside but chewy and delicious inside. It came with a creamy herb butter, which I suspect was also handmade. In a starch extravaganza, we also had the knödel, doughy potato dumplings served in a brown sauce. For entrees, we ordered like all other dumbfounded Americans at a German restaurant--brats. These were fresh, free range, and delicious with mustard so spicy that it made my eyes well. We wrapped things up with a second bourbon and Coke (did I not mention the first?) and dessert. It was apfel strudel for me and raspberry cream puffs for Ryan. Both were hearty and filling, eaten slowly because no one was waiting, and followed by a forty fort walk back to our little roadside cabin. All told, it was the perfect finale to a delicious Memorial Day Weekend.
Have a favorite Asheville eatery?
Do tell! Ryan, me, and everyone else who reads this should know where to grub.

At age five, I would pull the leafy tops of white potatoes until I was certain that something would come apart--the stems or my arms. My hands would be muddled red from tugging and brown from dirt. I'd grunt, unashamed that it took so much work to pull one plant. When the soil would start to bounce, I'd tip back, using all thirty five pounds of my body weight, leaning until dirt chunks blasted against my bare feet and I fell back, a stem in my hands and brown encrusted potatoes dangling like ornaments.
Grandpa would holler from six rows away, "Got ya' one?"
"Yea'huh," I'd reply, grinning as wide as the half acre plot he had fertilized to perfection on the Roanoke Valley's sprawling west side.
When my grandparents bought their house, they were in the country, and they lived like it. Grandpa kept deer meat in his deepfreeze and strange pets, including two raccoons, a tame skunk, and caged pet bobcat at the back of his lot, but the city grew out to him. By the time I came along, he had ranch houses on both sides and an apartment development behind him. While he never planned it, he'd become an urban gardner.

Twenty nine years later, so did I. I pushed a borrowed shovel into the thin band of grass between my row house and the public sidewalk. The roots were old and reluctant to give. I leaned in, using my foot, and scooped the first square of sod up, over and dropped it, careful not to block the sidewalk.
My plot was only three feet deep and ten feet long, but I packed it full--corn, okra, cucumbers, squash, sunflowers, mint, and five different herbs. As the food began to sprout, it became a neighborhood spectacle. People would tell me how much they liked watching it grow or their garden memories or with one crotchety neighbor, how deeply inappropriate he thought it was to have corn growing in the city.
The buzz was fun and the produce I grew was delicious, but mostly, I was glad to be digging in the dirt again; glad to imagine grandpa yelling across the way, asking if I got one; glad to commender a thin strip of soil and transplant a little piece of my mountain home.
While I've change houses since that first garden, it's time to plant again. Want to help me pick my vegi's?
Select your favorite below, and I'll plant the top two. We can watch their progress together with upcoming City Garden updates.
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Need two more reasons to be Appalachian proud?
Jefferson Vineyards and Barboursville Vineyards are located in the Blue Ridge foothills near Charlottesville. They both received prestigious medals at the second annual Winemaker Challenge in San Diego last month.
[caption id="attachment_3276" align="alignright" width="240"] Jefferson Vineyard[/caption]
Jefferson Vineyards received a silver medal for its 2009 Chardonnay, Reserve, Signature Series ($22) and a gold medal for its 2009 Cabernet Franc ($19). Winemaker Andy Reagan notes that it is the first time that Jefferson Vineyards has submitted wines to this competition and says, “It is nice to be judged by your colleagues and know that they approve of what you’re doing.”
Barboursville Vineyards received a silver medal for its 2007 Octagon ($40), a gold medal for their 2008 Cabernet Franc, Reserve ($23), and a gold medal for their 2009 Viognier, Reserve ($22). “It is rewarding for us to see our wine competing and scoring high levels outside of the state at the international level," says winemaker Luca Paschina. Commenting on Virginia's underdog status in the wine world, she adds, "No longer does Virginia have to be afraid to go out of state with our wines.”
So pull your bottle of Virginia wine proudly from that brown paper bag, and make a toast to these two fine vineyards.

[caption id="" align="alignright" width="166"] Photo by Don Dudenbostel.[/caption]
Remember Popcorn Sutton?
He was the gun totin', model T driving, quick witted, self promoting moonshiner that I featured last year. In his life, he became a local legend because he was unapologetic about making liquor, which he likened to a calling. In death, he's now approaching folk hero status.
No less than three songs have been written about Popcorn. One is from a man who knows a thing or two about legends--Hank Williams Jr. Two others are from local songwriters in the Tennessee and North Carolina mountains. They all tell the story of a man who lived proud, did what he loved, and bucked a crooked system the only way he knew how--by taking his own life.
Take a listen and vote for the best Popcorn Sutton Song.
[polldaddy poll=4545836]
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[youtube]pD-2swZrP90[/youtube]

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