by Ashlyn Stallings

You know those little triggers that cue the voice in your head to say, “This time last year?” Lately for me, memories ensue with the thick scent of confederate jasmine or the lowcountry cookbooks lying around my apartment—it’s safe to say I miss Charleston these days.

This time last year, I was interning at the fabulous Spoleto Festival USA in the Holy City. Trotting up and down King, George and East Bay streets to hit up shows with my comp tickets, I was high on art, music and dance during the 17-day festival. This is the last weekend, so check it out now.

The James Beard Foundation recently announced the Semifinalists for the annual James Beard Awards, the Oscars of the food world. And not one, but three Charleston chefs got the nod.

Pictured from left: Chef Aaron Deal of Tristan (nominated for Rising Star Chef of the Year), Chef Sean Brock of McCrady's (Rising Star Chef of the Year and Best Chef: Southeast), and Chef Mike Lata of FIG (Best Chef: Southeast)

Now, Momma taught me it's rude to say, "I told you so." No one likes a know-it-all. But in the February issue of Southern Living,

(Photo by Jennifer V. Cole)

Anyone who has read any of my Tales from the Road posts has surely picked up on a theme. From nostalgic musings on bacon grease to recounting a muddy afternoon spent with feisty pigs in a North Carolina pigsty to my ode to Donald Link's Cochon restaurant--when it comes to pork, I'm like a kid in a candy store. Sometimes I even hear angels.

When I found out that Aaron Deal put a new dish on his lunch menu at Tristan that celebrates pork belly, I had to make a pilgrimage. I don't mean to be sacrilegious, but let's just say I was moved by the porcine spirit.

Yesterday I hit the red leather-bound volumes of Southern Living, starting at the top left corner of the shelves in 1966. What I found felt very much like a time capsule.

(South Carolina's 1,500-year-old Angel Oak. Photo credit.)

When I think of trees, I think of the four spring-flowering Bradford Pears that made a square in my childhood backyard. How the trees formed a lane perfect for pitching baseballs (to my mother mostly). How I watched them, unknowingly, grow from weak treelings to wonderful, burgundy-leafed adults. And how they sort of watched me rise as well. Trees are markers of the changing seasons, givers of shade, reminders of time, and anchors to place.

Here are a few famous ones in the South that bring to mind the words of William Cullen Bryant, "The groves were God's first temples."

(Photo of Charleston's Beard-winner, Hominy Grill, by Shayna Anne)

Foodie powers-that-be recently announced this year's James Beard Awards, the highest culinary accolade out there, America's meal medal of honor. The shindig, which you can see via pictures on the JB Foundation website, looked to be a real tony affair, with the tops of our nation's restauranteurs/chefs/food writers toasting their love of cuisine. And once again the  contingent who call our proud region home showed up bigtime at the celebration.

(Photo by Meg McKinney)

Ah.  A week of beaches.  Each day we'll highlight our favorite places to dig our toes in the sand. 

We kick off our Beach Week with one of the alltime family beach destinations:  Myrtle Beach.

I'm an Alabama fan, so I usually swear under my breath upon hearing "Big Orange," but that's a whole 'nother rant for a whole 'nother blog. (Besides that, I work with too many Tennessee fans who know where I live.) So last week when I stumbled upon Tanner's Big Orange in Greenville, South Carolina, I was immediately taken in by the iconic sign poised like an exclamation point over South Pleasantburg Drive. The giant hot dog did not escape my notice either since I have never been one to turn down nitrates in any form.

(Photos by Tanner Latham)

I’m not a food writer.  I’m not a golf writer.  I’m not an adventure writer.  I like all these things and write about them generally, but I’m not an authority on any.  There’s one thing I know I can do.  I can read a map. 

I was recently in Charleston, South Carolina, where, one evening, I had the pleasure of sharing conversation and some Basil Hayden's bourbon with Randolph Stafford, a Charleston-based chef with Iverson Catering—and a veritable pork aficionado. As the evening came to an end, he cocked his head, pushed up his glasses, and wished me in his slow Virginia drawl “World Peace and Bacon Grease.”