I read this morning in the New Orleans Times-Picayune that oysters in the off-season are on the brink. Regulators could be shutting down restaurants from serving the Louisiana staple - how many times have I had a dozen at Acme, Casamentos, Pearl! - from April to October. Same goes for Florida, the Carolinas, the Chesapeake, and onward. In an effort to cut down on a rare bacterial illness from bad bivalves, the new FDA sterilization rules means big time losses for oystermen, restaurants, and consumers. To put it in perspective in New Orleans, Lousiana harvests one-third of the nation's oysters. If the FDA plan happens, the new rules will likely take effect in 2011.

Read the full article here.

Buddy Grimm stepped off his long, flat stone crab boat just as the sun began its last half-hour in the south Florida sky. He looked beat: reddened on his forearms and ears, his loose and tatteredoxford shirt stained by tobacco and sea salt. His three crabbers lifted the day's catch in large rectangle boxes filled to the top with pink-and-black stone crab claws. Looking at the catch, I thought of two things: 1) Would the poised and frightening claws come back to life if I touched one; and 2) Were a bunch of crabs swimming in circles out beyond Chokoluskee Bay?

Last week I traveled to North Carolina. It was my first trip to NC in the two years I've been on staff at Southern Living. After tens of thousands of miles logged in the far reaches of Texas and in Louisiana's  bayou backwater, seeing the rolling, tree-wealthy range of central North Carolina was the freshest breath of air I've had in a long while. At times, I felt like I was in another country, maybe Scotland.

Mark your calendars for April 19-20 and 25-26: The global music community is descending onto Houston for iFest. From Celtic to Tejano to African drum circles, the city will be jamming out both weekends. Since 1971, the iFest has been THE international event of the year in hTown, and for good reason. When you look at all the offerings, it will make your head hurt it's so packed. 

Editor's Pick: Rootz Underground, one of Jamaica's hottest reggae bands, shown above. There's plenty of good acts to catch on the 10 stages. So, if international travel is out for your family this summer, head into Houston. Tip: If you buy before March 31, one-day tickets to all the shows are only $7.50.  For a preview of Rootz Underground and other performers, continue reading...

Ah. It's FINALLY here. My very favorite two days of the sporting year. Thursday-Friday of the NCAA Men's Basketball Tourney, the day when giants are knocked off, when the little guy hits the game-winner to clinch immortality on his home turf. Tune in to this post to hear all about the South's best sleeper teams likely to shock the hoops world. Even President Obama is in on the fun. 

I wish Billy Reid was my roommate. Then whenever I needed to look especially cool and dapper and Gatsby-gone-South, I'd just raid his closet. Last month, the New York Times ran a killer piece giving the Alabama fashion designer major kudos. He deserves it. Now only if I can convince Billy to move from Florence to Birmingham.

Yesterday I read something very, very Southern in the New York Times. For months now the newspaper fairy has been delivering to my doorstep a free copy of the Sunday Times. I used to "borrow" the local public library's copy early sabbath AM --- returning it before the den of books opened on Monday --- until, lucky for me, the daily gods saw fit to save me the two-mile drive. Now, it's waiting thickly folded and wrapped in thin blue plastic when the sun comes up, minus that obscene $5 price tag Starbucks requires. But, back to the gorgeously written piece...it was about a frozen deer carcass in southeast Tennessee.

Downtown Roswell, Georgia, a suburb about 14 miles north of Atlanta's Buckhead neighborhood, feels much like a little English village. Clockmakers, painters, tidy and cute cottages, the whole bowl of cheerios. Now, as restaurant men with an affinity for country pubs opened Salt Factory, Roswell really feels like Sussex.

Continuing our local's look into the city of Dallas, here are the next five reasons to visit Big D. Also, I didn't mention that this list of 25 is not ranked. It's a sum-greater-than-the-parts deal. OK, let's get to it.

16. They've painted the town.

Check out two more vintage covers from Southern Living's early years. Other than the hairdo, Jackson Square's sidewalk art still looks pretty much the same. If you readers have any SL's from the 60's and 70's, feel free to share favorite story subjects, pictures, or advertisements.

In the February issue of Southern Living, I wrote about "the most misunderstood metropolis in America" --- Dallas. Big D. The Other Dubai. The Central Coast. Where the east ends. The nicknames help to push this fashionable boom city into unflattering light. Fortunately, we don't research with Wikipedia. Truth be told, Dallas is a killer town. I've never in my life been more welcomed into a big city. It's very local, if that makes any sense. And I've never been more happily surprised to find indie music joints, laid back beer gardens, ambitiously green locals, and enough material to warrant a follow-up, top 25 list of reasons to kick it in Dallas sometime soon. So here we go...

21. They are building a waterfront.

The towns of Marfa, Alpine, and Marathon embody the far west Texas spirit of wide open possibility. If you react like locals to the almost endless spread of landscape, you'll be on the next plane to El Paso. For some backstory on the assignment and my three trips out west, watch the audio slideshow.

Even after 100 years of mountain solitude, Balsam Mountain Inn, opened in 1908, remains as tranquil as it is painted white. According to one guest when I visited last fall, the leaves beginning their magic show on the hills, "I just sort of fell in love with the rocking chairs on the porch." Couldn't agree more. An added, and often overlooked, bonus to the driveway-wide porch? The restaurant there is fit for a Carolina king.

I don't understand the Blues. I don't know the Blues. My dad only played country music on our car trips growing up. I listened to Mariah Carey and REM and Crash Test Dummies as a teenager. And now the songwriters I drift towards like Bon Iver might put Howlin Wolf and Buddy Guy to sleep. It wasn't until I heard Solomon Burke sing "How I Got to Memphis" - a song that to this very day makes me want to call the river city home, just for a little stint, to feel the hurting truth of King Solomon - that the Blues knocked on my door. But even as I write this, the soft, cottony talking Blues angel in my backseat mumbles two words. Muddy. Waters. Yessir, Muddy Waters, my friend.

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.

Have you heard of CityPass? If not, then listen up: There's no better value offer for exploring Atlanta and Houston (plus other major metropolises outside the South) than CityPass. The booklet of tickets is basically a pocket-sized, front-of-the-line golden ticket to each city's spotlighted attractions. All-in-one for less of a price.

If you were in Houston, you would pay $34 for adults/$24 for kids and recieve entry into Space Center Houston (NASA); Downtown Aquarium; Houston Museum of Natural Science; Houston Zoo; either The Health Museum OR George Ranch Historical Park; either Museum of Fine Arts, Houston OR The Children’s Museum of Houston. The adult value for this package would be more than $65. Plus, the CityPass comes with preferential seating and a free appetizer at one of 33 Landry's restaurants in the city.

If you were in Atlanta, adults pay $69/kids $49 to access World of Coca-Cola; Zoo Atlanta; CNN Atlanta; Georgia Aquarium; High Museum of Art OR the Atlanta History Center; Fernbank Museum of Natural History OR Atlanta Botanical Garden. A normal adults entry into these places would cost nearly $120. The added value in ATL comes for shoppers: Lenox and Phipps malls honor the CityPass with savings options in selected stores.

If you do find yourself in either Houston or Atlanta, I can't help but give my two cents tips for favorites in each. In H-town, Hermann Park is awesome; the reflecting pool and the Sam Houston statue reminds me of the Mall in DC. It's a wonderful morning spot. For Atlanta, I have three words. Get. To. Decatur. Especially for two fantastic restaurants: Brick Store Pub and Cakes and Ale, shown to the left. Stellar.

To read up on both cities, visit our Southern Living's website by clicking on the city names Atlanta and Houston. And before you visit, check into CityPass.

He's become so famous, so significant, so normalized in everydayspeak, John James Audubon's name has eclipsed its birth purpose. He's become a brand, as marketing minds would say.

Born the same year the United States chose the "dollar" as its currency (1785), Audobon led a naturalist's dream-life; he was a Daniel Boone of bird watching, snaking along the South's backwaters and tromping in its woods, all in effort to complete his inspired project he called Birds of America. Though he didn't find and paint all the feathered species (he came close, taking more than 400 to show off in Paris), Audubon left indelible marks on the region as we now know it.

***Above, Audubon's "Mourning Dove," originally called "Carolina Pigeon"

(Photos by Art Meripol)

"Black bears rarely attack. But here's the thing. Sometimes they do. That doesn't happen often, but - and here is the absolutely salient point - once would be enough." - Bill Bryson, A Walk in the Woods

I took several walks in the woods this weekend. The jaunts led me along leaf-covered paths of yellow poplar, sassafras, white oak, sweetgum, and red maple so bright your heart could burst. Though I love and grew up exploring the woods, I do not adequately remember the sounds of the woods. You might call me a woodsman right after you call me a Braves prospect. This is why I thought a bear was about to jump me while hiking the Springer Mountain Loop this weekend near Ellijay, Georgia.

Nashville artist Herb Williams, who's been written about in this magazine, continues his quest to create a world out of crayons. He sent me an email this morning to introduce his latest portrait, that of Senator Obama, just ready for Election Day across America. Though SL does not call itself blue or red, we couldn't resist showing off our friend Herb, one of Tennessee's most creative and all-around-swell guys. We love the South and its people much more than we love politics. If you are Nashville, your best bet to meet Herb is to stop by the Rymer Gallery downtown, where he curates and builds his crayon masterpieces. Warning: He may enlist your help in cutting the color sticks, if you are lucky.

Find time to exercise your right to vote today. And while your at it, buy a box of 64 Crayola's. There's nothing like that fresh smell.

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.

Nashville hosts the best and brightest in Southern Books this weekend, October 10-12, and it's wide open to the public. Even Oprah's next book pick will be there. If curling up with a stirring novel or a fascinating dive into history suits you, keep reading this post for my own "Cliff's Notes" of how to best experience the Southern Festival of Books.

The Blue Dog artist shouldn't feel blue this week. Today Governor Bobby Jindal announced George Rodrigue, the man behind the wonderful motif, as Louisiana's Artist Laureate. Well done George! George hits the road this month on book tour for Blue Dog Speaks. To find the Louisiana Laureate somewhere near you, starting October 5th in Texas, click here. 

Last Friday all eyes were on Ole Miss as the two Presidential candidates opened the debate season in Oxford, Mississippi. If you are wondering what the scene in the little Delta jewel looked and felt like, one Ole Miss senior took nonpartisan notes for Southern Living in the tailgate-like atmosphere.

Recently, Time Magazine (a publication owned by our parent company) published a story titled, "50 Authentic American Experiences." These huge types of magazine articles always intrigue me. Rarely do I not grab the magazine or click on the story to see what editors spotlight as the best BBQ in Texas, the greatest songwriters of all-time, or America's favorite beaches. I love the breadth of expertise and the narrowing down of opinions.

Time, though, missed the mark, especially in the South. I'll offer my thoughts and you can decide.

Washington, Texas has always been a place for Houstonians to escape and relax on the ranch. Only 60 minutes from downtown Houston, the four-star Inn at Dos Brisas is a place to ride horses, gaze out at blue bonnets, and sip good wine. Today, as Houston recovers from the recent storm, the home away from home helps out by taking its role more literally, from no-cost dry cleaning to helicopter rides ($600 round trip) to the city. The Inn also offers to pay 100 miles worth of gas for storm-hit travelers, which will almost cover driving from Houston. Oh, one more thing, the WiFi is working.

Wetin na yu nem? Last week, I traveled to Sierra Leone and Liberia in west Africa with a non-profit group called Living Water International. Beyond the many poignant interactions, the hopefulness among such great physical need, and daily dirt-road adventures, the trip opened my eyes to the connectedness between the places where I travel for Southern Living and the villages that welcomed me in Africa, especially in how we speak. By the way, earlier, I asked you your name. Wetin na yu nem?

Tonight (Tuesday, September 2) James Beard-winner John Besh's New Orleans Brasserie Lüke reopens after Hurricane Gustav. Quite a turn-around. It's the first of Besh's four restaurants to turn the lights back on, and it's a good sign for the city post-storm.

Doors open at 5 PM, no reservations are necessary, and guests are invited to walk in at their leisure. The menu will be limited, but shall include some of Lüke’s signature dishes - Lüke Burger with Allen Benton’s Bacon; Carmelized Onions and Emmenthaler Cheese; Pressed Sandwich of Whole Roast “Cochon de Lait” with Cherry Mustard; and Croque Monsieur Croque Madame et Frites with Emmenthaler Cheese.

Also, try the French "75" cocktail. A friend described it as "like kissing a ruddy-faced, blonde-haired boy on the beach." I'll take her word on that one, but i tried it. Perfect summer drink. 

Windy days in South Florida.

(Photo by Scott Suchman)

Can you imagine a better swing? Visitors to the Florida Panhandle's "Forgotten Coast" spend weekends in Apalachicola hoping the rest of the world continues to bypass this sliver of fishing village untainted by eager land developers. 

(Photo by Gary Clark)

The Outer Banks. Ah, just saying the name makes me feel pleasantly far from reach. North Carolina's 200-mile string of Atlantic beach towns - Kitty Hawk, Hatteras, Nags Head, Manteo, Duck, and several other coastal hamlets - all offer summer sunrises with your toes in the surf. Roam Carolina's east coast while the long days last.

Interstate travel usually leads to generic, unmemorable, value-meal food stops. On a recent Texas drive from San Antonio to South Padre Island, I found a BBQ place called Van's that made me want to write a story about making I-travel a more local experience. Here are three interstate BBQ joints worth an exit in Texas.

(Photo by Taylor Bruce)

(Photo courtesy of Galatoire's Restaurant)

The New York Times published a story this morning about the return of Times-Picayune restaurant reviews for New Orleans, a missing part of the daily since Katrina nearly three years ago. First up for hometown scrutiny: Mr. B's Bistro in the French Quarter. The look in the mirror for NOLA means much more than an extra column in the paper. It means normalcy.

(Photo taken July 24 in Rogers, Arkansas)

Senior Photographer Art Meripol and I took the last couple days to visit the newest Minor League baseball stadium in America, Arvest Ballpark in Northwest Arkansas. Even as the lightning storm rolled over the Ozarks yesterday evening, I found myself quite happy. Ballparks are one of our country's greatest venues of communal joy. And farm team parks might be the ultimate of all summer American experiences. Lucky for us, the sun came out this afternoon just in time for the Texas League-leading Naturals to host the Tulsa Drillers.

(Photos taken by TB)

In the July heat that seems to rush up and down the Mississippi River and hover over New Orleans, I find respite at Hansen's Sno-Bliz on a boring corner of Tchoupotoulis Street. The crowds gather here like someone's golden retriever is telling spiritual secrets. Summer days, the masses line from the corner, stand inside a beaten screen door, and shuffle along the sunflower yellow line leading to Mr. Hansen's handmade, U.S. Patent-ed ice machine. Ten thousand aging photographs tell you the story you are standing in. The people in them testify to how worth it your wait will be.

(Inside the Spotted Cat, as seen from the back wall.)

"It's the best 100 feet of live jazz on the planet." I tell my friends this, relishing the hyperbole, a no-no for a writer, but convinced that if you gave me a jetplane for an evening I'd fly here, the 600 block of Frenchmen Street. Snug Harbor, dba, and the subject of this post, The Spotted Cat, puts out  jerk-your-head, smile-to-your-neighbor, tap-along music every night. The nine-year-old club, a former oysterhouse, ranks easily as my favorite.

(Image by Jason Langley via Flickr)

Over the next few days, TALES FROM THE ROAD will post musings about one of the South's most treasured towns, New Orleans, the Crescent City of saints, trumpeters, magicians, French Creole recipes, and weatherworn wrought iron. The resurgence is evident to any traveler to NOLA, whether eating barside at Clancey's or strolling down Chartres, catching the streetcar on St. Charles or stopping by the new Musicians' Village.

Even in the summer warmth, there is no city in America quite like New Orleans. So, check in through the weekend to learn where, what, who and why we love this city of endless lagniappes.

(Photograph by MacQ)

I realize you are reading this in the simmer of summer. And I know, far west Texas (194 miles southeast of El Paso to be exact) does not bode well for cooling off. But in Marfa, nearly mile-high elevation and devoid of hellish humidity, the Thunderbird Hotel truly is a Highway 90 oasis of flair and of temp. Yes, revamped with Marfa’s own style-of-thumb (local art in rooms, Judd-inspired spareness, Sante Fe in feel), the Thunderbird uses its desert locale with reclaimed oil-piping latticework and well-groomed cacti. But it’s the cool-conscious list of hotel amenities that keep guests out of the heat and in the hip, indoors and outside, with vintage offerings and thoughtful features. The West never was so chic or so sunny.

(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 courtesy of the Weinstein Company)

Shreveport? Really? Kevin Costner loves Shreveport? Jack Black craves the poboys at Cush's Grocery? Denzel chose here to film a project near and dear to his moviemaking heart. Head's up, Shreveport is making real waves. This former oil man's hub is winning over Hollywood bigtime. One newpaper writer gives us the scoop.

(Photo courtesy of Texas Parks and Wildlife)

Matagorda Island - rugged and untamed, sea-oat-pure, populated by whooping cranes, wild turkeys, and white-tailed deer - lays 5 miles across the Espiritu Santo Bay from mainland Texas. If cowboys were sailors too, this is where they'd roam.

(Photo by Scott Wiseman for Southern Living)

The beach is where many Southerners go to disappear, to unwind, to play, to be a family. In many houses, “the beach” means more than just any sandy stretch of coast. It means one particular beachtown, that one special locale, whether grandfather’s seaside condo or the old palmetto house rented the same June week year after year.

Paris Hatters, North Broadway in San Antonio

Eighty years plus in the hat business is long enough to fill Paris Hatters with a week's worth of anecdotes. For delightful confirmation, go meet the founder's son, Abe Cortez, pictured here.

(Photos by Taylor Bruce, Tanner Latham, and Robin Weekley)

I was 15 when, as a high school player from Georgia, I first visited Rickwood Field in Birmingham. Forever afterwards, no ballpark experience matched up. None. Suiting up for a game in America's oldest ballpark is the apex. But watching the game from the scoreboard heights might be a close second.

(Photos courtesy of Curtis Palmer)

Tomorrow marks my favorite day in the city of Birmingham, Alabama. It is the day Rickwood Field, America's oldest ballpark, comes back to life with the sights, sounds, and smells of baseball. The crack of maple. Venders chanting out sales of hot dogs and peanuts and ice cold sodas. Young players stretching singles into a hard-won doubles. The Rickwood Classic makes grown men become boys again.

Yesterday I drove 266 miles in a steady rain throughout southeast Missouri’s Mark Twain National Forest, towns like Rolla, Winona, Eminence, and Fredericktown. The landscape was just gorgeous, rolling forests and old barns tucked onto bright green pastures, the Current and Jack’s Fork Rivers along curvy backroads, what Missouri writer William Least Heat-Moon calls blue highways.
    Rain at first put a literal and figurative damper on my day of research and exploration: I was supposed to be checking out hiking trails, canoe companies, and camping spots. But it turned out, as I drove south from Salem, Missouri, towards the upper fourth of the Current, the rain brought a needed sense of serenity, quiet, and even dripping beauty.
    The stormy day reminded me how to travel well in the rain.

(Photo courtesy of Pegasus News)

While walking through Dallas' NorthPark Mall, a place of high fashion, modern art, and exquisite landscaping, Senior Photographer Art Meripol and I came upon a real surprise: John Lennon's Steinway upright, the one where his peace anthem "Imagine" came to life.

George Rodrigue's Blue Dog paintings and silkcreen prints have nosed their way into our American visual iconography. Ask anyone anywhere if they know the Blue Dog and chances are you'll get a bright-eyed yes. In recognition of such a colorful, distinguised, and massive career, the New Orleans Museum of Art and Rodrigue gather a 40-year retrospective "Cajuns, Blue Dogs, and Beyond Katrina," showing until June 8. What visitors realize when roaming the multiple rooms and viewing the 200 plus original works: this man treasures Louisiana. And, judging by reception in NOLA, the feeling is certainly mutual.

Coffeehouses in Nashville go by many names. Breakfast spot. Reading place. Study corner. Freelance headquarters.  Depending on the time of day, you'll see bed-head musician, traveling salesperson, and college student all standing in line at various beaneries in every pocket of the Tennessee capitol. As a former resident, I took some time to pass out some faux hardware for what makes each shop pretty special.

I live in Birmingham. In fact, all of us editors live here. And one of the city’s lesser-known treasures, even to travel writers, plays jazz every Wednesday night at a little Crestline neighborhood café called the Open Door. His name is Cleveland Eaton. Cleve was Count Basie’s last standup bass player, which makes him a living legend in jazz circuits, and the Alabama Music Hall of Fame inducted him to their Montgomery space barely two months ago. I first met Cleve two years ago when, researching a feature story for another magazine, I covered the Birmingham vanguard of players, several of whom drop in on the Wednesday night jams.

(Portrait by Jason Wallis)