Shreveport icon, Strawn's Eat Shop, is best-known for its strawberry pies topped with smooth domes of whipped cream.

But this little restaurant (featured in SL's November mega-story "Secrets of the South's Best Diners") also serves a mean meat-and-three lunch. The daily menu is so stone-sure, it's painted on one of the walls...

(I visited Mose Tolliver at his home in 2005.)

I'm heading to Tallahassee, FL, this week to interview an artist for an upcoming feature on the great Southern folk artists you need to buy now.

(I would tell ya more about it, but I don't want to scoop the story.  Keep your eye on the mag...) 

I'm a folk art enthusiast, investing any extra cash into pieces I admire and the artists who create them. The trip reminds me of my first folk art encounter: A trip to see Mose Tolliver, one of the most noted artists of the contemporary folk art genre... 

Everybody fears #17.  The island hole at TPC Sawgrass haunts all of professional golf's big boys (Tiger, Phil, and the rest of the pack) who are swinging away at THE PLAYERS tournament kicking off today in Ponte Vedra Beach, FL. 

I understand.  I played the course last Spring with my father (see my story on the TPC Sawgrass Experience in SL's April '09 issue).  #17 beat me.  Dad smote it, however, and I even shot a video of his tee shot. 

Okay, so this is really cool.  I caught wind about the Southwest Airlines Wi-Fi, but it didn't cross my mind this morning when I hopped the plane from B'ham to Dallas.  

Then, Bam!  Here I am, blogging in real time from the skies.  Their wi-fi homepage shows me the progress of the flight.  (It's 8:15 a.m., we're going 450 mph, our ETA to Love Field is 68 minutes, it's dark, and we're wearing sunglasses...)  During this testing period, the service is as free as the two packs of peanuts sitting on my tray. 

Now, what could I write about?  The guy in 12D holds his newspaper close to his face.  The woman in 13D brought cheese crackers.  She offered me one, but I politely declined. 

I never promised the post would be exciting. Just cool.

Detoured off I-540 to hike at Devil's Den State Park in NW Arkansas.  Followed unmarked paths to crevices and blazed trails to caves.  Didn't make it too far into this one.  Next time, I'll pack a flashlight.   

(photo by Robbie Caponetto)

“Everybody wants to know when they will win the lottery," said Margaret "Miss Maggie" Burkley. "It’s not the winning or the losing, though. It’s the playing of the game.”

SL Photographer Robbie Caponetto and I sat down with Miss Maggie last March while researching our story The Allure of Natchez in the March '09 issue.  We found her, because when we asked locals about the unique personalities and characters, they all recommended we make an appointment to see her at her pink house on the bluff. 

Why?  She was the town psychic, and even though I called ahead, I had a feeling she knew we were coming... 

The first thing John David Montgomery ever gave me was a pair of red chopsticks.  To be fair, they were the only things he ever gave me.  To be even fairer, he tried to give me a Bud Light when last I saw him, but I politely passed.  I still had a ways to go on the bottle in my hand...

(Tungurahua as seen through our bus's window.  --photos by Tanner Latham)

It’s roughly a four hour bus ride from Quito to Ambato.  We rolled south on the Pan-American Highway, also called the avenue of the volcanoes. About 45 minutes from our destination,

(Plaza de San Francisco, Quito, Ecuador--photo by Tanner Latham)

Photographer Cary Jobe and I were in Ecuador for a week last year researching "The Common Language of Caring," a story that starts on page 74 in the February '09 issue of Southern Living.

A medical mission team, comprised of many Southern doctors, nurses, medical techies, and volunteers, returns each February...

While researching "Old Salem by Candlelight", (p. 40 in Southern Living's December issue) I took a stroll down Church Street in this historic district of North Carolina.  Four birds waddled out, crossed the street, and bee-lined to a pile of corn kernels scattered in a front yard. 

A local later told me he had heard of a gaggle of vagrant guinea hens inhabiting the neighborhood. 

He thought it was an urban legend.

For a slide show of images from the story, click here.

A great reporter digs to find the facts and writes them as he knows them.  When he is wrong, he admits his mistakes.

I was wrong.

After a previous post regarding St. Nick in Fredericksburg, I got a call from Santa.  Rather, I missed a call from Santa.

(Listen to Santa's message.)

Local Santa, Santa Claus (see Retraction post), loves sharing the joy of Christmas. photo by Scott Suchman

I sent our photographer, Scott Suchman, a rather detailed shot list last December for my story, "Shop Fredericksburg."  I gave him specific locations and angles I thought would work.  The main theme, though, was to convey Chrismas in this charming Virginia town. 

I never asked him to find Santa Claus.

photo by Scott Suchman

We've chosen our five favorites in this Virginia city.

We're huge fans of the Old Town district of Fredericksburg, and here's why: All the stores are locally owned.  When browsing for everything from antique furniture to contemporary gifts, you'll find the shop owners right on the spot.  Check these out.

Last weekend, Union Station in Washington D.C. turned 100 years old. Though officially opened in 1907, the wonderful example of Beaux-Arts style celebrated its final completion a year later in 1908. Today, the white granite columns, cavernous barrel-vaulted ceilings, and marble floors echo a history of soaring American architecture as bygone as the train whistles just down the hall. If you've yet to experience this old-school grandeur in DC, make it this special year. Even if just for a movie (downstairs theater).

For more images taken by SL Editor Tanner Latham, read on.

There is only one best, right?  It is the ultimate.  Nothing better. 

Miesha Williams isn't a bartender, but she's as open-eared as any Moe I've ever met pulling tap handles.

photo by John O'Hagan

He's a god in Asheville, NC, brewing circles.

"Is that the first time you've ever said 'Avocadolicious?'  Because that's the first time I've ever heard it."

Full disclosure: I didn't overhear this. 

Last week I sat with Dawn Welch among the sooty remains of the 1939 Rock Cafe in Stroud, Oklahoma. 

(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.

As I stood beneath the lukewarm spray this morning, six pairs of curtain hooks--like miniature prosthetic pirate hands--hung ominously overhead.

(Photos by Tanner Latham)

After seeing the Birmingham Barons play the Jacksonville Suns in the annual Rickwood Classic Thursday, I'm convinced I've reached the pinnacle of farm league baseball experiences.

I was standing in Natchez--Under The Hill, to be exact--when the sky went pastel as the sun set behind the far banks of the Mississippi River. Cross that bridge, and you'll find yourself in Louisiana. Vidalia.

(Photo and video by Tanner Latham)

“Good luck on #17.”

The valet guys at the Sawgrass Marriott in Ponte Vedra Beach, FL whisper it when you toss them your keys. Our breakfast waitress winked when she said it while dropping off the check. No surprise, really. This is arguably one of the most famous holes in golf, and if you play the Stadium Course at TPC Sawgrass—-home to THE PLAYERS Championship kicking off today—-it’s the hole that’s stuck in your head from your first swing on the practice range until your final putt on 18.

Why?

(Photo by Art Meripol)

I grew up in a small town in Alabama. I have a Southern accent that digs deep or floats shallow, depending on the situation. I thought I knew Southern accents, until I met Lindsey Vincent at the Good Earth Peanut Company while researching a story out this month on the best stops off I-95.

(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. 

(Photo by Tanner Latham)

Kyle Busch burned up the track at the Aaron's 499 on Sunday, but that wasn't the only thing on fire around there this weekend.

A hazy smoke hung over the air at Talladega Superspeedway when I drove past it Friday afternoon. My first and ignorant thought was that there might be a forest fire.

"I'm calling about the prom.  My daughter bought tickets for her and her boyfriend, but she lost them.  What she wants me to do is buy her more tickets so that her boyfriend doesn't think she is stupid.  Can I do that?"

-Overheard in the Nashville airport and spoken by a goateed, bespectacled gentleman.  Mission accomplished, because I heard him give his credit card number. 

(Photo by Jean Allsopp)

Pumpkin Lee at Journeymen Saddlers in downtown Middleburg has done the tack repair work for equestrians--many of them Olympians--for over 30 years.  Pumpkin, huh?  So I ask her given name.

I have a confession. I hoard hotel room amenities. There. I’ve said it.

Shampoos. Lotions. Mouthwash. Matchbook-sized sewing kits I never use.

If I’m in a hotel room more than one night, I’ll hide the cute little bottles I’m using so the staff will re-stock the bathroom counter right next to their dazzlingly artistic display of folded wash cloths.

Here’s a Travel Tip:

Most of the hotel-sized liquid items pass through airport security swimmingly, so that’s a bonus. Knowing that information helps me justify my problem. At least that’s what my therapist has offered.

The above image is a picture from my shower. No doctoring. Well, I did hide the Hello Kitty loufah sponge. I see it as an art installation called “Decadence in Miniature.” I buy shampoo from the store roughly once a year, and it’s only as a backup. I smell like roses, orange blossoms, and sandalwood. Why? Because it’s free.

(Photo by Tanner Latham).

Sometimes St. Sara N. Dippity reminds you she’s keeping an eye on you on the road.

I unfolded an ironing board in a Hampton Inn off I-20 near Madison, Georgia.  After hearing the piercing squeak of the never-oiled legs, I saw a pair of ankle socks fall out.  Laundered.  They smelled like a Bounce sheet, and one had a hole worn in the heel. 

Of course I smelled them.  Wouldn’t you? 

I decided to leave them behind.  The next soul to inhabit room 106 will have a decision to make.