HOME

Home

It's where the heart is, so they say.

Yeah, it actually really is. I went home yesterday - gosh it was a quick visit, with a lot of things on the to-do list - but it was . . .

So. Absolutely. Good.

Sometimes, "good" is an underrated word. But the past 36 hours have been just about the best I've had in quite awhile. And, somehow, so very "good" is what comes to mind.

Daddy got me, and we had to get back to Atlanta to deal with doctor stuff. He was shocked and impressed that Luke was so calm and content in the backseat (his Grandmom likes to make him ride in the crate in her SUV but there's no room in Grandaddy's car) but I just assured him that's how we roll in Chattavegas, and all is good.

Home . . that has meant a lot of things for me in the last few years. Places I've lived, or my parents have lived, or we've lived together: note, don't have a tree fall on your apt and have to move in with your parents that night, dog in tow. . . to  - heart stuff, like thinking I'd found the love of my life, or saying goodbye to someone, or friends moving, or...

I haven't been to our beach house in too long. When we go there, together as a family, for Thanksgiving or Easter - we outsource the cooking. Not sure what's up for this year, but it being summer and all - the beach makes me think of home since it has long been such a big part of our family's life.

I don't know if I will get to the beach this summer - I hope! -  but I got to go home last night. Whatever the actual domain is, where my family is, that is home. Daddy was down in his office watching Fox News, I was upstairs with "Scandal" playing on my laptop; Luke ventured somewhere in between while I checked on my (SIX loads of) laundry, and . . .all was good, and for a bit, right in the world.

We had dinner last night at the Club, and I was so happy that a precious friend of mine could come, and meet my Dad for the first time. I had a chicken Caesar, nothing exciting (though I had plenty of those damn good buttered saltines I have never been able to duplicate at home!) but Em loved her pork chop, Dad loved talking about her skills as a professional bbq contest judge... and I was happy, because I was with people I love, and all was - "good."

Sometimes, it is the little things that are so big. A friend making time in her schedule to meet you on the only day you are in town in six months. A dad who picks you up and takes you back to your city, after other stuff, like dr appointments and lunch and dinner and . . . saying "good night" when it was time to tuck in.

I have said this before, but I know  I have taken it for granted at times -  I am a lucky, blessed girl. Despite some challenges, life - and salads or crackers -  are . . .good. And with a dose of home this week, I feel fortified. That is  - well, beyond good.

Yours,
Love Bites,
Carrie Neal

#YesAllWomen

I love me some boys. And, for the record - all men are boys on some level, hence my use of the word; I don't object to us being called girls.

That aside, I am pissed.

This whole . . . tragic debacle with Elliot Rodgers has got me thinking. Hard. And about me, and my friends, personally and specifically. Then just translate that to all women and there you go: I am super angry. And now I will be honest.

Am I weak? No.

Am I quick to judge or assume? No.

Am I afraid to do, be, try, etc? Hell, no.

But here's the thing.

What all these articles and web posts and tweets and - everything - have brought up . . . it is all So. Damn. True.

We, women, do get silenced. We do get interrupted. We do get harassed in big and small ways. We . . .

It wasn't till all this tragic stuff happened that I paused to think about the possible reality of such in my life. But, sadly, I realized that it is a reality. I will give you five examples of how something denigrating, devaluing, or dismissive has happened to me - in the last (wait for it) week.

1 - A customer talked over me when I was introducing myself to the table and trying to say I'd be their server, and said "honey, I'll just have a water."

2 - An ex boyfriend messaged me with sexual innuendos (yet again) - even though I have repeatedly asked him not to do so. I thought we could just be friends.

3 - A customer came in after closing and said "My friend threw up in the bathroom. Can I pay whoever has to clean up because it's so gross? I assume that's you?"

4 - When I was waiting for the bus, a guy said "You're so pretty. I bet you have a boyfriend." When I tried not to respond, rather than leave me alone, he persisted - "Why don't you? I could be your boyfriend. What's your number?"

5 - One of my managers at work who didn't hear me answer the question he posed ("Who was here first this morning to open?") but heard the guy (who, for the record, got in after I did) say it.

These are small and mostly inconsequential examples of what is a truly scary thing: women are at risk.

It can be financial, it can be psychological, it can be . . . a lot of things.

When a man approaches me on the street, asking for money, it raises my hackles. When I have to leave the restaurant late at night and get a cab, I wonder what the driver will be like. When I have to smile and banter with a customer who is, frankly, a jackass, I cringe internally. When I . . .

There are so many situations, big and small, in which a woman's voice is negated, voided, challenged, ignored. If you stop and think about it, it's true and it happens all the time.

I've never been one to focus on inequalities or he said/she said politics and what not, but this whole CA scenario has hit home with me. I am a smart, strong, brave, capable woman and I deal with some things every single day that this horrific episode has brought into focus: my Pollyanna side and hero of a daddy and model for men might make me gloss over it, but women get shit in all shapes and sizes, regularly.

Enough. If you have a son, teach him differently. If you have a daughter, teach her differently. The statistics are staggering: men speak 75% more than women on boards, committees, etc on decision making issues, people retweet men's tweets twice as often as women's, and even in movies (!) men have more disruptive speech AND garner twice as much screen and speaking time as women (http://www.alternet.org/). There are many more examples than just these small ones. Did I mention that "everyone" considers women to be the ones who dominate conversations?

Girls need to be strong, be capable, be brave with words and action. Yet, realistically, we have to still be wary, observant and . . . polite, courteous and cautious.

Will this change? Can it? And if so, to either, then how?

More than food for thought - it's Fiber One cereal on steroids.

Yours,
Love Bites,
Carrie Neal

Must Love Dogs

That is a simple fact.

For me, and the canine curled between me and this laptop on which I am writing this post - it is a blessed fact.

I do like Chattanooga; love would be a little strong to say, but it is proving to be a good place for me.

But, I have been lonely.

I am a creature of habit: I am a collector and curator of people, friends and more; a frequenter of favorite places; a proponent of finding the good in my surroundings.

And, well, simply - something has been missing in my new life here. My doggus.

Luke came to Tennessee this week and - frankly? - I feel like a mommy with her first newborn! (I'm imagining this feeling, based on what friends say, post, etc) I can't stop gushing, posting, picture-ing . . .

My boy is here. Food? Dog food only, of course. Ok, a tiny bit of chicken that I dropped out of my quesadilla at lunch yesterday. But, real "food"? Real food is love, and sustenance - and my heart is over-full.

A lot of things have happened to me in the last year, and one of the most life-affirming things that has happened to me is having Luke here with me now. To love and to care for (to have and to hold - hee) - and to know that he still knows his mommy, and he doesn't want to leave my side now that he is here . . . I am, well, overwhelmed.

Hungry, not so much. Because I am being fed. With love.

One thing I am focusing on these days is being *present* - and something that is really helping me do that is my dog. When he sits on my lap, and I have to rearrange myself to reach the computer or my Diet Coke or whatever, or when a jingle jangle of tags follows me when I walk around my cute little apartment . . . small, precious, filling moments.

To close, a parting thought from one of my long time favorite actors in a particularly appropriate-now movie:

"You should have seen this girl - she's a mess, she's completely lovely..."

"... And she's a unique constellation of attributes."

And she - this girl - loves dogs.

My heart is full - Luke's tummy is - life, and God - are good.

Yours,
Love Bites,
Carrie Neal

Lions and Tigers and Blueberries, Oh My!

There aren't lions and tigers on the menu, of course, but there are blueberries.

And pumpkin, and pear and . . .  various other adjuncts to yeast, hops, barley and water.

Have you tried Sweetwater Blue? A Georgia-made IPA with a distinct but not cloying hint of blueberry. Or Pumpking Ale, an Oktoberfest with a festive spike of pumpkin flavor.

Maybe bourbon's more your style and you'd enjoy a strong ale like the Kentucky Bourbon?

While certain meats aren't on the Taco Mac Sports Grill menu (for those of you not familiar, TMac is an Alpharetta-based company whose original location is in Atlanta's VaHi neighborhood, and with which my Atlanta friends are no doubt familiar; Chattanooga is the only TN outpost so far) - of course we do have plenty of chicken in the form of all kinds of tasty wings, and cow in the American classic form of burgers - we also have over 150 beers, between tap and bottle, at any given time. We have a list updated daily of the "new, gone and running out" options, monthly specials (this month it's a quartet of  three Sweetwater picks and a Road Trip IPA; for Final Four fun we had four Oktoberfests reserved for a thematic occasion).

We've got your lambics, pilsners (did you know they are Czech in origin?), and stouts; your ciders, saisons and bocks.

And I had to learn all about it. Got a 100 on that particular bar test, too.

Menus have typically been easy for me when I've started at a new restaurant. I like food, pay attention to detail and have a focused, borderline didactic approach to mastering the good stuff I'm going to sell and serve to you.

Beer, not so much! Never something I really drank, or cared for - certainly not something I ever thought I'd have to learn so much about. Do you know that the ancient Egyptians had gods of beer? Indeed, the Romans weren't the only ones with gods of adult beverages. In the present day, Belgians are the only ones that use wild yeast (spontaneously fermented in the air) in their beer making. And on and on the knowledge goes . . .

I am now a student at Brewniversity (yes, this is a real thing), TMac's branded beer program. It's free to join and you can check it out online if you're a beer aficionado, or just a frequent beer drinker (see www.tacomac.com/brewniversity) for details, to join and for the online app that tells you what's new daily and weekly; perks like a running kept list of your choices and a free extra 25% pour (20oz vs. 16oz) for life once you sample 125 beers, and more.

I have been impressed and, frankly, a little amazed at how many people love this program. And come in, particularly on Thursday nights, with phones loaded to the app and eager for the newest selection - and the keeper stein qualifying students get from 5pm on . . .

So, if you're in Chattanooga, come check it out - all TMac's have extensive beer choices, but thanks to different state laws, we can offer some choices unlike those in our home state. Michigan picks and other local-to-new-states brews coming soon!

I may not be a beer drinker, but I'll tell you all about it!

Yours,
Love Bites,
Carrie Neal

36-28-26 (ps 37 1/2)

I'm feeling a bit out of proportion. For multiple reasons.

See, I think I got  - um -  shod from my last job because I wasn't cute enough or . . . thin enough. Or young enough. That may be a heavy charge to level, but based on what I was told after a month's worth of awesome work - who climbs a ladder to the fourth level to reach the most schmancy, expensive liquors and gets asked out four (five?) times by a customer if she has a fat ass? Who averages a 22-25% tip score between cash and card (measured on every check out slip so that isn't just me guesstimating it) if she's not good at her job - and gets canned after her three week bar tenure? I am calling BS.

The title to this post: my approximate measurements. Based on, yes, bra size (36D), ('spensive) jean size (27-28) and hip size (guesstimating here because my hips are smaller than my waist these days, which does bug me). Oh, and my age.

Me, last fall (too skinny, though I liked it) -

Stress non-eating phase . . .



This was me, last November with my Lucas Dog -

And just before moving to Chattavegas (apparently, that name has more import than I thought when I copped it from my first and dearest childhood friend as a silly joke) -

Forget him (I did) - the point here is how I look.

Getting ready for a date night (sorry for the selfie, y'all but it makes a point here)

(btw, these were actually 26's so I am moving "up" from there)

And this is me, today (literally) -

Pretty hairs, pretty girl - right??

So, you can't see the rest of me, but hopefully you'll run with what I am saying based on my face. (I'd show you a pic of the rest if someone had taken one...)

Fired for not being cute enough or thin enough? Hell, the old part - well, I'm not 22. I'm 37. But the rest of it?

I have struggled with body, food, image, whatever you want to call it for so many years.

I have discovered that while the restaurant world was an unintentional, unexpected and sometimes. . . un-fun (who wants to wait on, whether bartender or server, the parents of your friends from Westminster, deb balls, college . . .in your 30s . . .) - I am really good at it! My personality, my charm - my ability to read people (trust me, I know when she wants the dressing on the side or has 12 more questions about how something is prepared, and he wants his Woodford on the rocks or . . .) and I am good at what I do, right now. Really good at it.

But one thing I have worked on is looking at myself through someone else's mirror - because I still can't completely trust my own. My stomach is not as flat as I would like - but I wear a jean size that is smaller than so many women, so logically I cannot be fat. My legs are proportionate to my body, but long and lean - can I pass the "thigh" test like my crazy-skinny-body-mind wants? Not really, but they are small enough. Do I still think (big) boobs make me fat? Yeah, kinda. These are my issues.

When they enter the workplace - and they cost me a job at which I am damn good - I say NO.

A woman of 37, whom you hired, who is pretty, way more than capable, fit and more than physically acceptable . . . well, here is what I say:

Your loss.

Not mine.

And I find another place, that welcomes me - as I did the very next day. Will I have a bigger stomach than I'd like when I first start? Yep, but that's my issue - not yours. Will I do a fantastic job for you?

You bet your ass off I will.

Come see me in Chattavegas and see what you think for yourself.

Yours,
Love Bites,
Carrie Neal

Mom, Mt. Vernon and Me

If the mountain won't come to Mohammed, Mom-hammed has to come to the Mount. Mt. Vernon, that is.

This week, there was a bit of a significant event. In many families, perhaps, such wouldn't even warrant a comment, because it is so common. In ours, though, it was pretty - notable, and awesome.

The thing is this: I love my mother very much, and she loves me as much, or probably more given I am of her. But our relationship is, to say the least, complicated. 

But Monday, we were able to have an absolutely beautiful, loving and kind experience. Ok, first we moved stuff into my new place (Dad spearheaded this so don't think I am leaving him out) then we had to go to Bi-Lo and...but it's one part of the day, and a dinner, of which I write.

Chattanooga is a town filled with nearly all warm memories for my family.

When we lived here, for a bit when I was a little thing, we had our routines - much like those we would develop in Atlanta - about people, places and practices. And a particularly dear one we had was eating Sunday lunch after church every week at Mt. Vernon.

So when we trekked towards Lookout Mtn to get to the grocery etc (ok, living in Atlanta forever, I am used to calculating distance a bit differently than I have to now in Chattavegas - Lookout and Signal really aren't that far from downtown!), and passed Mt. Vernon, a bastion of my youth and our early family life - all it took was a glance between us and we knew where we'd be having dinner.

This is one of my favorite pictures of my mom and me, ever - 

With my pretty mama, at the Amanas, 2002 (yeah, we favor)

In this picture, we look happy and close. And we were. But belying the pretty (and similar, no?) smiles, there was a lot of tension. Not between us, at the time, but with our surroundings and others with us (this picture was taken the weekend my parents first met my former in-laws - enough said...). And the same things could apply to last Monday as well as to our recent collective family life.

It has been a rough - while - for my family. In all directions between family members, for various reasons on various levels, for . . .well, you get the idea.

But this week, God looked on us with favor, the stars aligned, the moods were right . . . whatever you call it, we had goodness. Moving someone's stuff from storage to a new place once again, driving back and forth a few hours, discussing jobs and rent and . . . all of that took a back seat to a mother-daughter moment that we don't come across often enough.

A meal, taken at a leisurely pace, and without worry of waistlines or calories, Important Topics of Discussion, checking cell phones, or any of the stuff that can easily overtake time together.

And, it was good. So very good. The company was mutually perfect - not a cross word, not a bit of tension (at least to my reticular activating system, as my daddy always calls it, and I hope not to hers), not anything but enjoying each other's company. This, my friends and readers, was a great blessing.

Oh, and the food? Well . . . 

A Southern Chattanooga classic gets modern with a kale salad- yum!!

Homemade pimento cheese (and I just realized - that's the same shirt my mom was
wearing in that pic from 2002! Cute thin woman!)

Meat and Three (er, two) - Ribeye, fried green 'maters and mac and cheese!

STFD, y'all! Not a bite left of their famous Amaretto pie after we tackled it!!

See - I was right, again (hee!). Sometimes, food is love. Or the communion you have over food is love. A place you walk into and immediately become the happy, delightful child you once were, and your mama becomes the wonderful, thoughtful young mother she once was - that is the Magic Kingdom, y'all.

My mother was my age now, the last time I remember being at Mt. Vernon. To say it was a treat to have come back there, together, under loving and happy manner - well, that just makes me think this:

“Ah, how quickly the hands on the clock circle toward the future we thought was far away! And how soon we become our mothers.” ― Peggy Toney Horton


And, more importantly, this: if I am becoming my mother, that is more than fine with me - it is a blessing.

Love, food, family. Blessings, all.


Yours,
Love Bites,
Carrie Neal

When There Are No Bites Left

What do you do?

That great sandwich - even that last Best Bite that you left to completely savor.

The final bite of the most delicate filet you've ever had, that you almost didn't want to eat because the sensation of it melting in your mouth was so delightful it stopped all thoughts of anything else.

A final spooning of the chocolate chip ice cream you ordered on bottom of the mint chocolate chip in your double cup, because you like it the very best just as you did when you were four.

. . . That - goodbye kiss. The one you may know is just that - or may not. Which is better or worse? And how are food and love so different, really?

The bittersweetness of knowing it's the last, or the thought of how long till you'll have another, bite or kiss - the tenderness of a goodbye touch that you don't expect to be the final one, or the forkful of goodness you think you'll have again very soon . . . 

What's left?

Well, sometimes, you try to make more. Surely, there's another recipe in your self-made cookbook compilation that you haven't tried, and it's bound to be delicious. Whether microwaved or oven-made, hastily put together or well thought-out. Another boy to kiss after a first date - or maybe just because you want to. Whether out of boredom, or out of hope or real interest.

Or not.

Maybe, the groceries or the energy to try aren't . . . there. Or maybe you try and it's not so tasty, or the attempt falls flat.

Do you put your apron back on, or fix your lipstick, and try again? 

Food for thought.

Yours,
Love Bites,
Carrie Neal