The Crab Chronicles

Twenty Questions With Erika Fields

I am always delighted to learn more about my neighbors and the fascinating  creative things they do. Erika Fields is my neighbor down the street and until recently I knew primarily that she has two adorable little boys and a dog similar to my Lola, and was a baking hobbyist, producing amazing custom cakes and desserts. I didn’t realize it is a serious full-time job and she is an amazing artist.

In 2017, Erika started Confections of a Corporate Mom, and now she has retired from corporate life and bakes full time. Erika makes a lot of kids’ birthday cakes and cakes for events like wedding showers or small scale special occasions [unlike my friend Jenean who makes primarily high end wedding cakes over at Carlton’s Cakes]. 

I started following Erika on Facebook recently, marveling at the amazing cakes she produces.

RIGHT -- a vanilla funfetti cake with vanilla bean buttercream

BELOW -- This is a cake for a 9 year old's birthday. It's Chocolate Cake with Vanilla Bean Buttercream

 

Like Jenean, Erika takes pride in producing cakes from organic and premium ingredients. Many bakeries use mixes and their cakes simply don’t taste as good as those made with, for instance, premium butter and organic eggs.

Erika got started like many bakers, making a birthday cake for her oldest son’s first birthday, 8 ½ years ago.

Erika loves to branch out, and cakes aren’t her only specialty. She also makes cupcakes, pies and cookies for special occasions, like a friend’s recent book signing. “It wasn’t just thirty people around a cake, it was hundreds of people enjoying what I made,” she recalls.

Paint your own cookies are a big hit with kids. “My kids always loved the books that have the squares of color at the top, and you just take your paintbrush, dip it in water, and color the picture. I found a woman on Etsy who makes paint your own cookies stencils. They are huge hits. The cookies are vanilla bean sugar cookies. I’ve got dozens of designs. The cookies each come in a bag with a paintbrush and instructions.” She will do cookies or dessert tables for parties as well as cakes. 

“My favorite cake so far is the Ninjago cake I made for my son [see below]. It was my first gravity cake. That’s a cake that looks like it should not be standing. It spun around. It was Kai from Ninjago, the fire ninja. It spun like a tornado, had fire on the top. It was amazing.” She was so amused by the store clerks at the hardware store following her around, demanding to know what she was building – a cake, she replied, loving their reactions. There’s a short video of the cake on Erika’s Facebook page. [see photo below]

There’s a shop in Decatur that helps her build things. She loves cakes that spin, or have lights, or that move. She recently did a turtle cake that moves.

“Right now I have a mom that said ‘I have a two hundred dollar budget for a cake. Here’s the theme. Go nuts.’ I love that creative freedom,” Erika says.

Most people pick up their cakes, but she will deliver, especially the multi-tiered cakes.

One of her favorite cakes was made for a little girl who couldn’t decide on her party theme – it was between princess and black panther. The little girl loved it. [You can see the cake here.]”It was so much fun. The little girl saw it and she just squealed.”

She makes vegan cakes and cakes for any special dietary need except nut allergies, because she can’t guarantee her pans meet safety standards for nut allergies.

Although she loves making specialty cakes, Erika is also looking for restaurant clients who might want to outsource their desserts. She uses locally sourced organic ingredients and would welcome the opportunity to supply desserts to a restaurant with patrons that would appreciate the passion of a cake artist.

It was great fun talking to Erika and learning more about her business.

ABOVE -- Erika in her workshop

 

What is your full name?

Erika A. Fields

Where would you live, if you could live anywhere in the world?

I’d like to say Cape Cod, where I grew up. It’s idyllic, my family is still there. But I’m really very happy in Atlanta, I’ve been here for 14 years – I love it. Where we live now reminds me a lot of home. Our house backs up to the woods and a creek, we have coyotes and hawks, falcons and rabbits, and not a sound at night. Not what you’d expect when you think of “Atlanta”.

What is your favorite movie and why?

Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. I loved it as a child, the over-the-top world Wonka created left my taste buds tingling and my imagination buzzing. To create something that brings so much joy to kids, is there anything better? That’s why I do what I do, when a child sees his garbage truck cake (that his mother couldn’t really understand but ran with it anyway, because that’s what moms do) with glowing headlights and chocolate banana peels, and he lets out that squeal! Oh man, Yes! Wonka was able to build a business, bring some joy and sweetness into the world, and embrace his creative nature? He had it made.

What was your least-favorite subject in school when you were a kid?

History. I cannot remember dates to save my life. Thank goodness for iCalendar and Facebook birthday reminders! Ironically my husband is a living historian, he can tell you anything you’d like to know about the Civil War. I’m so jealous.

What was your nickname when you were a kid?

Kiki. I’m not certain how that started, but that’s what everyone called me.

Do you believe in God?

With all my heart. I also believe in karma -- how we treat others is everything.

What sound or noise do you love?

The wind off the ocean. I grew up sailing, so the sound of the beach immediately calms my soul.

If you could do anything other than what you do, as a profession, what would it be?  

I’ve just started doing it J I worked in corporate finance for 14 years. I learned so much about running a small business, and all of the small details that go into long-term success. I learned the ins and outs of taxes, payroll, cost accounting, HR, compliance work. All of the “boring” foundation you need to make sure you start a business properly.

I’ve been so lucky to have the support of an amazing consortium of moms in our area to help get us started. Life is sweet!

If heaven exists, what do you think it is like?

I think it’s all of your family and friends. People come and go but no one is more than a thought away.

Do you have siblings?

I do, a younger brother. We were both adopted by the two best parents I could ask for. Mark is one of the most amazing people I’ve ever known, people are simply better people for having met him. I have so many awesome stories about him, he’s just one of those truly special people who makes the world nicer without even thinking about it.

What is your favorite memory of childhood [something specific]?

Growing up, we went to Disney every year. It was the highlight of our summer. As I aged, teenage moodiness started to take hold. At a particularly grumpy lunch, my father, at the end of his rope, told me to stop being a “B word”. I cried, hysterically. It was the first time my dad had really called me out (and I absolutely had it coming).

I sulked until we went to our next activity, a movie studio (reminiscent of Double Dare). Everyone sat down and the announcer asked if there were any kids in the audience who weren’t happy with their parent. My hand shot up before he finished his question!! He called me to the stage and asked which parent needed to come down, I said my dad. The announcer made my dad put on these hysterical clown pants, complete with a hoola hoop waistband. I took my place behind a giant slingshot with a bucket of rubber chickens and it was my job to make my dad run around and try to catch said chickens in his clown pants. It was the funniest experience ever, and so perfectly timed. J We all left with smiles on our faces, my dad and I had forgiven each other and the rest of the trip went off without a hitch.

If you had to choose between one week traveling around the USA by car, or one week traveling around Europe on a train, which would you choose and why?

Europe by train. I fall asleep too easily in cars, I’m a terrible car trip companion, unless you’re looking for peace and quiet. Plus there’s something so nostalgic about traveling by train. You feel more grounded, more connected to the countryside.

What inspires you?

My kids. They challenge me every day to look at things differently. With my cakes, they’re my biggest quality control critics J The majority of my cakes are for children, so they’ll let me know if they think Pikachu’s color needs to be adjusted, or if the Lego figures look good together.

Which holiday do you prefer, Christmas or July 4th?

Can I say Halloween? J j/k But to stick with these choices, I would say the 4^th of July. We always spend it on Cape Cod, it’s the best place in the world to watch fireworks. You can see dozens of simultaneous firework shows, from Harwich to Provincetown. Wondering which way to look may give you a crick in your neck, but it’s gorgeous to watch!

What project or idea are you most passionate about, right now?

Growing my bakery. I have been so fortunate to be able to dedicate my time to this new venture. I like to make my desserts as personal as possible. So yes, I’d love to make your balloon cake, but I’d love a picture of your family so I can make the silhouettes holding the balloons look like you!

I’m also trying to figure out some basic mechanical engineering, which has been a challenge. If you want a simple cake, I’m probably not your cake lady. Want a cake that spins? Lights up? Moves? Let’s talk! When clients embrace your creative freedom, it’s amazing what I can come up with!

Do you know how to cook?

I love to cook. Baking is my passion but I can definitely hold my own when it comes to preparing dinner.

What is your favorite thing to cook/eat?

My favorite thing to cook would be lasagna. I have food allergies, so I can never eat premade lasagna. I’ve come up with an awesome recipe, and when the whole family sits down to enjoy a one-pot (minimal mess) meal? Life is going to be ok!

If you could go on vacation anywhere in the world, for 2-4 weeks, all expenses paid, where would you go and why?

Seville, Spain. I went in high school and we traveled all around Spain, but we spent a few days in Seville and I fell in love. It was so gorgeous. The hills, courtyards, churches. I’d hop on a plane right now!

Who do you love the most in the world?

My husband and sons. Our kids just spent a week at Grandparents’ Camp. It was so much harder than I thought it would be. I already cry at “off-to-college” commercials, I have a handful of years before that starts but oh, the feelings...

What question has nobody ever asked you, but you wanted to answer?

How many teeth do mosquitoes have?

Living History

There is an African proverb that goes, "When an old person dies, a library burns to the ground." I was thinking about that because my mom has several friends who will turn 90 this fall, and they are still lucid and active, and filled with wisdom and insights. If I live to be 90 that's how I want to be -- still vital and engaged in life, despite slowing down physically. 

My 84 year old mom knows a lot of things I don't know. I know things millennials don't know. I watched a funny video of a bunch of young teenagers trying to figure out how to use a rotary dial phone. They had never used one before. 

To be fair, if you handed me the type of phone used in the 1930's I wouldn't know how to use it. My mother has laughed recalling the old "party line" days where several people shared a phone line and you had to wait your turn to make a call. Phone numbers were things like "Madison 3467." You talked to an operator, a live human being, to get your call through. I know that much just from watching old movies. Calling was much more of a big deal then, actually. My grandparents had a little table/chair combination thing that looked somewhat like a school desk, where you could sit while you talked on the one telephone in the house.

 

My son calls his friends multiple times a day, on a phone he carries in his pocket. He sends them photos. He doesn't worry about the expense of a long distance call. 

I mention all this simply to illustrate how much making a phone call has changed. Also, I want to show how different generations understand different things. 

above, my grandmother and some of her sisters, on a picnic, 1950's

 

To me, hearing about history is always a lot more interesting when a live human being is telling me about their experiences. I have microcassette tapes I made years ago of my mother recalling what it was like to live through World War II, and The Cuban Missile Crisis. Mom has also written a lot about her life experiences on her blog. If you read about The Cuban Missile Crisis by doing a Google search you will turn up a lot of facts about what happened. However, if you talk to my mother about it, you will hear a very human story, about a young family with an infant (me) and a toddler (my brother) living just a few miles from a nuclear power plant (The Savannah River Plant) and terrified about getting out of town and trying to survive a nuclear war. Mom had only a limited supply of milk for me, and didn't know where she would be able to find enough formula, if they left town, as so many were doing.

The closest memory I have to that is my memory of 911. I was sent home from work around lunchtime and called my mother before leaving. She told me -- in very forceful tones -- to go to the bank and withdraw as much cash as I could, then to get a full tank of gas, and then hightail it back to my condo. We were wondering if the US was about to be invaded. She was very nervous and upset -- much more so than I was, but then I had not lived through the Cuban Missile Crisis, or World War II.

Most people think of history as dry and boring but to me it's fascinating. 

I used to be a voracious reader. (I still read, just don't have as much time, since I am taking care of Mother, a big house, and a dog.) I loved to read novels set during interesting periods of history. My aunt recommended a novel called The Nightingale -- wonderful book, about how French civilians coped during the World War II German occupation. I highly recommend the book. 

If you want to interest a child in history, don't recite a bunch of facts to them. Tell them stories of real people and how they fared during the crisis. Do what my dad did and take them to civil war battlefields, and explain what happened. Take them to visit aircraft carriers and let them run around and experience the size of those things, and see the living conditions of the sailors. Show them the sword that was carried by great great granddaddy a hundred years ago in the war. Show them the butter churn Granny used. Let them touch history. I treasure a handkerchief my Thompson grandfather sent to his mother when he was in France during World War I. 

Visit places like The Atlanta History Center, and show the kids what history looks and sounds like.

Likewise, value older people who understand and appreciate history. Talk to them about their experiences. Audio or video record them. Don't let their libraries of memories die with them.

I love the story of Rishi Sharma, a California teenager who has made it his mission to interview and record as many World War II veterans as possible (link). He understands the importance of capturing those memories for future generations to appreciate. What an incredible young man.

We need to encourage kids to video their grandparents and great grandparents. We need to record stories from long before we were born. We live in an age when recording devices are literally in our pockets and we record everything, all the time, so why not record memories?

Dad's family picnic/reunion, mid 1950's

Spicy Chicken Salad

My mother doesn't like chicken much because she was force-fed chicken several times a week as a child. Then my dad always wanted her to make it at least once a week -- for 40 years. When Dad died she said that's it, no more chicken. I am DONE. I understood. She was a good sport for a long time. 

We are big tuna salad makers here at my house but not chicken salad. 

A couple of years ago my friend Lee Ann sent over some delicious chicken salad. Michael just inhaled it. He was practically licking the bowl, and pestered me to get the recipe and make some MORE. So she shared her recipe and I followed it. He loved it. 

I decided to adapt it a bit, though, based on some suggestions from Mom and I added curry because I had made some curried chicken salad for a church function years ago and it was very popular. 

Since I was writing out the recipe for a friend of mine I thought I'd just share it here. 

 

Dee’s Chicken Salad

 

1 rotisserie chicken [usually yields 2-3 cups chicken]

1-2 cups seedless green grapes [halved or quartered if they are large]

½ -1 cup pecans, roughly chopped

2-4 cups mayonnaise [we use only Duke's, but you can't get it outside the south]

½ cup chopped onion

1 lime [chop in half and squeeze juice]

½ tablespoon sugar

½ cup finely chopped celery [can use celery salt and/or seeds instead]

Salt and pepper to taste

Onion powder

Celery salt [to taste]

2 teaspoons curry powder

Lawrey’s seasoned salt, to taste

 

Pull all the meat off the rotisserie chicken and chop it into bite-sized pieces. Add your mayo and all other ingredients. Mix well. Taste as you mix and adjust seasonings to your taste. Refrigerate.

This will feed my son about 3-4 times, or a family of 4 normal humans once or twice.

Buried Pain

One day last week I noticed there was a sore place on the bottom of my left foot, and I wondered how it got there. I had broken the top of a crystal box recently, and the glass shards scattered across my floor in front of my dresser. I thought I had gotten them all up with the broom and dustpan but maybe not. My bedroom floor is wooden and I sometimes get splinters in my feet from the floor. I cannot bear to wear shoes inside my own bedroom, though.

Yesterday, I could feel the lump on the bottom of my left foot, near the outside, but I couldn’t twist myself around enough to see it. I asked Mom to look at the bottom of my foot and figure out what was causing the pain. I held up my foot and Mom scooted her chair over to the bed so I could put my foot in her lap. She could feel the lump.

She said “It looks like there’s something under there, and the skin has grown around it.”

“See if you can poke it out,” I suggested.

Mother has incredibly tough fingernails. She keeps polish on them. Her body holds on to calcium, which is good, but potassium seems to slip away too easily, which is why she has leg cramps so often.

She dug around in my foot with her nails and I tried not to scream.

Mother has a cataract in her right eye and can see almost nothing out of it at the moment. Hopefully the August 15 surgery will remedy that.

“I think I got it,” Mom said, after a short time. I breathed a sigh of relief.

My foot is still a bit sore from Mother’s prodding of it.

I was thinking yesterday how my sore foot is a metaphor.

In life, we often absorb foreign objects [hurts] into ourselves, and even surround them with protective layers, burying them deep. Shouts, insults, angry words, abuse – all those type of hurts are like foreign objects, wounding us. We try to ignore them. Yet, the pain lingers, of course, because it shouldn’t be there.

Ignoring the pain doesn’t make it go away.

No, someone with the ability to dig out the foreign object is the solution. It’s better if it’s someone who loves us, but it can also just be someone who likes us. A friend, parent, sibling, a colleague, a professional therapist – they are diggers. Sometimes we can dig things out on our own but it's much harder to do.

Digging hurts. Looking at the pain-causer in the harsh light can be sickening. The wound left behind will hurt for a while. The alternative, though, never results in healing. Ignoring pain is not the same as healing it.

Once the foreign object is actually out, though there’s still some pain and soreness for a while, eventually a blessing occurs. One day the hurt is truly and completely healed.

There will be a scar, but scars can be ignored, or even worn as badges of honor.

I respect scars. Scars indicate suffering, but also healing.

I have a lot of scars. Most of them are the result of someone I love accidentally hurting me, but the scars also show healing has taken place.

My wish is that everyone I love will dig the foreign objects out and toss them away, so true healing can take place. Then we can all concentrate on happy pursuits instead of expending our energy ignoring pain.

The Mud Pie Queen

I had never heard the term "helicopter parent" until about 10-15 years ago when I read an article about that type of parenting and realized a woman I worked with was the epitome of a Helicopter Mom. I listened to her talk about parenting like it was the most exhaustive thing in the world, and I remember feeling sorry for her. 

Now, I was raised by a stay at home mom and my colleague had a full-time job but those weren't the only differences.

Every moment of the day was scheduled for Helicopter Mom. Her children took lessons, got tutored, and had play dates. Her children were professionally photographed at  least twice a year. Their birthday parties cost $300 or more -- just for the special party stuff. Much more was spent on a cake, presents, and swag bags for the other kids.

They were expected to make all A's and she did their homework with them every night.

I knew her before I adopted my kids and I remember thinking wow, I so don't want to parent like she does. 

Now, to be fair, both her kids are honors students. Nice kids. Probably will go far in life. [I know this because they went to the same school as my kids and I would see Helicopter Mom occasionally and chat, although our friendship didn't survive me leaving that company.]

What made me think of her was that yesterday I was reading a review of a book called Achtung Baby: An American Mom on the German Art of Raising Self-Reliant Children, by Sara Zaske and I was fascinated and horrified to read of how differently children are raised in Germany and America. The German method sounds pretty awesome. American helicopter parenting?!? Sounds ridiculous, in comparison. Zaske moved to Germany with her husband when she had a toddler and was pregnant, and lived there several years.

More about the book, from Amazon:

As opposed to the stereotype of strict, overbearing German parent, Zaske found "free-range" was the norm for childhood. In Germany today, children are encouraged to walk to school on their own and talk honestly about the Holocaust and other painful moments in the past. The priority is raising children who are self-reliant, independent, and responsible: a stark contrast, says Zaske, to the results some experts see from American children in the "helicopter" parenting era. From the birth process (in which midwives are the most common attendants) to early childhood (child care is considered a right, and "kita" schools provide playtime instead of the more rigorous American-style education) to elementary school (where topics such as sex, death, and nudity are a part of everyday conversations and outdoor time is enforced daily), Zaske compares American and German parenting culture and gives the U.S. reader inspiration to explore new methods. 

I realized as I was researching this interesting book that I was raised much more in the German style than in the current American helicopter style, and I am very glad about that. I was a "free range" kid who didn't know differently.

My favorite activity from ages 5 or 6 until age 7 or 8 was to make mud pies in the back yard. I considered myself the mud pie queen.

I also liked to go exploring in the woods behind our house in Augusta -- usually by myself. My brother and I fished in the creek that ran through the woods, and swam in it [Ray's Creek, in Augusta]. We didn't concern ourselves with snakes or sunscreen. One day we walked for miles in the creek, pretending we were on safari in Africa, neither of us wearing shirts. 

left, me at age 3 at my brother's 6th birthday party - I never wore shoes

Mom wasn't watching us every minute. The rule was, we had to tell her where we were going if we left our yard, and she enforced that. However, we went all over the neighborhood and played, only coming home at dark, many times. We played football in the street. We rode bicycles everywhere.

When we moved to Knoxville, when I was 8, I remember spending entire afternoons outside sledding when it snowed. We got a lot of snow the winter of 1971. 

below left, me sledding in Knoxville, age 8 // below right, me on my bike, age 6, Augusta

We were daredevils. In hot weather we roller skated down the steep hill leading to our house, or rode our bikes down the hill. 

I remember spending countless days at the beach or at the swimming pool without parental supervision. (My older brother was often told to watch me but he usually didn't.)

When we bought the cabin on Douglas Lake I usually fixed my own breakfast and lunch [ages 8-16] and what I did during the day was my business. My brother and I swam, made rafts, swung from a rope swing and dropped into the lake, played tennis on an old court nearby, read books, picked blackberries, etc. We were outdoor kids, water babies.

Since my brother and I were both fair-haired and blue-eyed we had really fair skin, and I recall Mom slathering us with Sea & Ski before going to the pool but she was actually considered a bit overprotective for doing it. We got burned many times for not getting it reapplied. 

My mother was never an activities director worried about what I did every second of the day. Not at all. In fact, I learned early that if I ever said "I'm bored" I would be told "Well I have plenty of chores around the house that you can do." She wasn't kidding. I learned how to do my own laundry when I was 8. I could cook a full meal at age 10. 

Grades were not a big deal, for me. If I made a C they would ask me why but I don't recall making any C's until high school. Mom or Dad would ask me if I did my homework, most weeknights, but I had usually done it on the bus or while lying on the floor of the den watching the 4 p.m. movie. I don't recall homework ever taking more than 30 minutes until I was in high school. I don't recall my parents ever fussing at me about any report card until I got into high school and nearly failed Algebra my freshman year. 

I have few recollections of "play dates" as a child because my playmates almost always lived within walking distance -- a mile or two. Sometimes parents would organize trips to the roller skating rink or the movies, with a group.

I started going to the movies without my parents when I was about 7. There was always an older child with me, you understand, and we were taken and picked up at the door to the theater, but parents today would never do that, I'm sure. 

So much of my childhood was spent outside playing kickball, basketball, tennis, and other games, with no parental supervision. I skinned my knees regularly. I drank out of the garden hose. I peed in the bushes -- I'm talking about as a 3 year old, not later.

In the summers, aside from vacation time, I was often bored. I read books. I played with my dolls. I played games with my brother or other kids in the neighborhood. I watched TV -- we only had 2 channels.

My mother had even more freedom than I did as a child, in the 1930's and 40's. She rode her bicycle everywhere and her parents often didn't know where she was or what she was doing. She went all over Atlanta.

I tried to parent as freely as I had been parented but it was an uphill battle.

I was horrified when my son started middle school and there were no more recess periods. I had recess right through 8th grade. Kids need to go outside and run around and play. My son would come home so wound up from school and needing a break that I felt sorry for him. If I could have done it I would have homeschooled him. 

When I was in middle school I often skipped riding the bus home and just walked, usually alone. It was about a mile, through the neighborhood adjacent to ours. On pretty days I enjoyed walking more than riding the stuffy, smelly bus. One reason we bought this house was that it is walking distance to the middle school and the elementary school. My son walked home from both schools.

When I worked full-time, my kids knew that when Granny was in charge, they had to entertain themselves. I didn't let them watch TV or do computer stuff unless I was home and supervising. They played a lot of board games, or played outside. They walked to the pool without supervision, though. They rode bikes all over the neighborhood. I let them be "free range" as much as I felt was safe. 

I think nowadays perhaps it isn't safe for kids to be quite as free as I was as a child, but I think parents need to let kids do some exploring on their own, to develop self-confidence.

Let them fix their own snacks. My brother and I are both excellent cooks, and love to cook.

Let them play unsupervised, without phones or computers or videogames.

Encourage them to make things without help, to do their own homework without being supervised, to have entire summer days where they have to entertain themselves.

Talk to them about history, music, family stories. Share ideas and encourage them to share.

It's important.

 

Remembering With Food

Food used to be just ordinary, to me, a way of filling the belly, of eliminating hunger, of measuring the distance in a day, even, but now that I am older I realize that food is a way of communing with other people, and with the past. Ever since I heard the word "foodie" years ago I realized that it described me, but as I ponder it more I realize food is a powerful way to connect generations. 

After my father died in 1996 I wrote about him a lot, trying to process my feelings. One of my poems talked about memories of him frying fish that tasted "of Crisco and pond," which I thought was pretty clever. (I have no idea where that poem is right now, nor does it matter.) 

When I was small -- under 5 years old, I'm sure -- Dad taught me and my brother how to fish. We used cane poles and baited the hook with fat worms we bought from country stores that kept them in styrofoam cups filled with dirt, stored in old refrigerators. Then we would stand on the pond bank or the dock and drop in the line and watch the cork float on the surface. When the cork bobbed, a fish had the worm. 

It was simple, but it taught me a lot about patience. You can't rush fishing. I sure wanted to.

After the fishing was over, I learned how to hold the wriggling fish without danger, then behead the fish, gut it and scale it and wash it off, because we always ate any fish big enough to be more than a bite or two. Mom would make up a cornmeal batter and the fish would be battered and fried in melted Crisco. At the table, Dad would proceed to peel the meat off the bones for me so there was no danger of me choking on a bone. He was very good at it. 

I have fixed a lot of fish in my life but no fish has ever tasted as good as the fish I caught, cleaned, and Mom and Dad cooked. 

As an adult, looking back, I realized only much later that Dad was continuing a tradition taught to him by his father. 

My grandfather was born in Cordele, Georgia, in 1888. He was the oldest of a number of siblings and his father was a farmer who died when he was 12. There was no life insurance. Grandaddy had to go to work to support his mother and the kids, and he did it. He never graduated high school, but he kept the family together. He loved to fish. 

I never knew my grandfather, but my skill at fishing was most likely from him, through Dad. 

The photo above was made when Grandaddy was old, towards the end of his life, but he was proud of that fish. 

Side story: When I was in my 40's I worked briefly for a sole practitioner, an attorney who let me be the office manager, paralegal, secretary, marketing manager, etc. A client came in one day and I sat in on the initial meeting. He was an old country fella, and he proudly showed us a photo on his phone of himself holding a fish. "That's a big mouth bass. Nice," I said. "Did you use bait or a lure?" He grinned at me, pleased. My boss was astonished. Later, the boss said "How did you know that?" I chuckled. "I was raised by a dad who loved fishing. I've caught bass, bream, bluegill, catfish. I could catch and clean them before I was 5 years old." He just stared at me like I was an alien. He was from New York City and I'm sure he had never fished in his life. 

I was proud of my fishing knowledge.

 

My father worked a lot when I was growing up, and there were days when he left before breakfast and didn't get home until after I was in bed. However, on weekends he became our chief caregiver and Bruce and I learned a lot from him. 

Dad always made breakfast on the weekends. Usually he fixed sausage patties and made a huge omelet. Years later we referred to them as leathery. They were cooked to that consistency, and often had other ingredients -- cheese, crumbled bacon, perhaps onions and/or green peppers. Nobody liked those omelets but we ate them because we didn't want to hurt Dad's feelings.

Skip ahead to a time when I am in my early twenties and Mom and Dad and I attend a fancy brunch at a restaurant and I watch a real chef make an omelet. This was long before Food Network showed us how real chefs cook. I was astonished to see an omelet cooked over a high heat on a special pan, and plated when it was still fluffy and soft. That was not my dad's omelet. I tried one. It was delicious. 

Funny thing is, I felt a bit disloyal, loving that delicious omelet. I now make the same kind of omelets, completely unlike Dad's leathery creations.

 

I can't travel back in time to be that barefoot kid catching and cleaning fish. The old formica table at the lake cabin is gone. The cabin may or may not be there, at the end of a gravel road, on Douglas Lake. Surely the old wooden dock -- decrepit when we bought the cabin in 1972 -- is gone. 

My memories of the cabin are clear, though. It was a place where we connected as a family, and Dad always said those weekends at the lake were the happiest times of his life.

Every once in a while I pick up dinner for myself and Mother from Captain D's. They offer a country style fried fish option, a filet of fish fried in cornmeal batter. I never get it. It would not be the same as the fish from my childhood. I always think of Dad when I eat fish, though.

 

above, me and Bruce at Douglas Lake

Things My Father Taught Me

Exactly 22 years ago today my dad, Anthony Henderson Thompson, lost his battle with cancer and left us. I don't usually pay much attention to death anniversaries but I wanted to point out that he taught me so many things that are still critically important to my life today. Not a day goes by that I don't feel blessed to have had his wisdom and guidance. 

 Dad, me, Mom, Bruce's wife, Bruce, about 1991

WORK HARD

Dad was in some ways a workaholic. He got up at 6:30 every work day and usually left the house by 7 or 7:30. He usually didn't leave the bank until 5 or 6 p.m. or later. His work ethic was ferocious and he had no patience for anyone who didn't share it. The words "that's not my job" never left his lips and he didn't allow his employees to say those words. His attitude was that everyone needed to pitch in and do whatever was needed. He ran a trust department in the bank for 35 years and it usually made more money than the commercial department. He would often do things for his customers way outside his job purview -- like buy them a new TV set and put it in their house for them, which wasn't his job but it made the elderly lady customer very happy. He advised them about real estate. He took calls from customers after hours, nights and weekends and vacation times. He always made each customer feel important. His older female customers always adored him, and he was like a son to them.

PLAY HARD

Dad loved to play. Lots of folks didn't realize he played as hard as he worked. Whether he was building a go kart and racing up and down the street with all the kids in our neighborhood or hunting, fishing, boating, gardening, building model airplanes, or playing tennis or golf, he was always active. He always said his happiest times were at our cabin on Douglas Lake when I was a kid. There was no phone, and he could completely relax. [below, Dad at Douglas Lake, late 1970's]

TAKE CARE OF FAMILY AND FRIENDS

Dad never hesitated to step in and help anyone in the family. When one of his brothers was travelling and ran out of money he called Dad and the money was wired within the hour. When another brother's father in law died, Dad rushed to help him get the estate settled and he taught his brother how to manage the finances. When my maternal grandparents needed help, he was right there, acting just like a son. He organized family reunions. He gave financial advice to anyone who needed it. He taught his nieces and nephews to water ski and fish. He taught me that when someone needs help, you help. Period.  [below, Dad at a Thompson family reunion, about 1987]

BE A GOOD NEIGHBOR

I cannot count the number of times Dad took food to new neighbors, or neighbors who had had a death in their family. He would come in and say "Elva, I heard old Miz So-and-so died, what can we carry?" and Mom would make soup or chili or spaghetti [or defrost some] and they would carry entire meals. We took presents when there was a new baby. New neighbors were welcomed with gifts. We took food and/or presents at Christmas. Dad's generosity was real and he was always enthusiastic. 

One year he cooked barbeque for all the family in Augusta, and then divided it up into small packages and delivered them all over town. I don't think anyone got a great amount, but his heart was in the right place. 

He loved to barbeque. 

PURSUE PASSIONS WITH ZEAL

My dad loved his hobbies and he was enthusiastic about them. He was never casual. If he loved something or someone, it was obvious. 

My Dad loved to read and he read voraciously. He was never without a book, and often would be reading more than one at a time. He's the only person I ever saw read and watch TV and the same time. He hated commercials and he would read when they came on. I think my brother got his love of books from Dad, because my brother still reads 3-4 books a week, and knows all the librarians by name. 

Dad also loved to work in the yard. Every home we lived in, he would cut the grass, plant vegetables and flowers, and beautify the outdoors space. He and Mom worked hard to make yards beautiful. I didn't learn until I was grown that he had worked on his uncle's farm as a teenager, and knew the farm life wasn't for him, but somewhere inside him he loved growing things. The year after he died, the rose garden he had planted at the last home in Augusta went crazy with blooms. We took it as a sign. 

Dad loved all things military. Dad grew up during World War II and his brothers fought in that war, and it profoundly affected him. He watched military movies. He read books about military leaders. He visited the grave of Alvin C. York many times. He showed me and my brother every civil war battlefield and ship or carrier that allowed folks to tour it. For him, history was like a living thing, and he was passionate about everyone knowing history and appreciating it. My brother and I are both history buffs as a result. 

DO THE RIGHT THING

Dad always stressed that me and my brother Bruce had to do the right thing. He said it many many times. He lived that, too. He had an innate sense of right and wrong and he never condoned being anything but morally upright. When he said he would do something he kept his word. He always returned phone calls, even if he didn't know the person. He tipped generously. He helped his employees get promoted. 

He wasn't perfect, but he tried hard to always be moral and ethical. He taught me that -- probably the most important thing he taught me, except for one thing, how to love. 

 

LOVE WITH ABANDON

If my father loved you, you knew you were loved. You didn't have to wonder about it. He would be there for you no matter what, and if you wronged him, he was quick to forgive. 

There will never be another one like him. 

What It Means to Be Southern

I read a publication called The Bitter Southerner, started by my friend Chuck Reece, and I have thought a lot about the influence of that publication on my inner life. Two of my essays have been published by them Memories of Segregation and A Recovering Food Snob. Both reflect some of my feelings about being southern, but they really only scratch the surface. 

What likely distinguishes me from some Bitter Southerner readers and writing contributors is that I am not actually bitter. 

The only thing that makes me bitter is the idea that I should be ashamed to be southern. I am not ashamed. I am actually proud to be from the south. 

I am also proud to be a Thompson.

Does that mean I condone or agree with everything said or done by any southerner or by members of my Thompson family? No. Not at all. 

There seems to be a movement afoot, though, to be ruthlessly politically correct these days, and I am horrified by that. If anyone not southern expects me to apologize for my region, my family, my southern accent, my southern ancestors, the southern food I like to fix -- well, let's just say it will be a cold day in hell before I'll do that.

I have a friend in England who was asked to remove his flag from his front yard because some people found it offensive. God help anyone who asked me to remove an American flag from my yard. You're offended by patriotism? Too bad. I am offended that you would take offense.

Where is it written that anyone who finds something offensive is to be treated with kid gloves? What is wrong with being offended? I am offended all the time, countless times a day. I watch TV and I get offended. I read books that contain offensive things. Every time I go out in public and see some boy with his pants falling off or a girl showing her boobs I get offended. Conversely, most major religions offend me in some way. My friends and neighbors offend me on a regular basis. So what?

I can sit around and dwell on being offended or I can GET OVER IT AND MOVE ON. People who are constantly offended are inviting negativity and drama into their life and I don't have any interest in that. I choose to live in peace.

I choose to move on. 

I don't fear offending anyone but I don't go out of my way to do it, either.

For example, I know people who actually make money from blogging. That's fine. Good for them. I don't. You know why? If I accepted ads it would imply I approve of the products. If I let an advertiser or sponsor give me money I would have to dance to their tune -- and it would undoubtedly include worrying about offending people. I won't do that. 

I write exactly what I want to write and if you find it offensive, go read something else. It won't bother me a bit. 

Most bloggers I was reading years ago have stopped blogging. I think it has to do with offending people, in part. If you live your whole life worrying about offending someone, you are essentially in a prison of your own making. 

One of the integral parts of the American identity is the idea that we can be who we are without reservation, as long as we don't physically harm someone else. Some want to expand that definition and say we cannot offend anyone else. I don't agree with that. 

Now, I feel compelled to mention a couple of things I consider exceptions. When offensiveness becomes emotionally harmful then it must not be tolerated.

One, confederate monuments. I have never paid much attention to them. Ditto for confederate flags. However, if a black person (or a person of any race, really) finds them offensive, they need to be relegated to history museums. If there were a giant Nazi flag flying in a public space and Jewish people found it offensive would anyone argue about taking it down? Of course not.

Two, sexual harassment. Is it okay for men to sexually harass women? Nope. Never. It's not only offensive it's harmful. Is it okay for women to sexually harass men? Nope again. No human being should ever be made to feel like an object.

 

Now, having explained the exceptions, I want to circle back to my original premise, being southern. If someone is offended by the very fact that I am southern, or they expect me to apologize for it, forget it. I bear no responsibility for what my ancestors did, or what they believed. I won't apologize for their actions. Do I condone racism or slavery? Of course not.

I cherish my southern identity. There are so many good things about living in the south.

I cherish the fact that I was raised to have good manners. Countless times in my life I have been thankful that my parents taught me to be gracious and to have good manners, because manners are, quite simply, kindness.

I cherish the idea that family is important. I can trace my family members back hundreds of years. In college, I was friends with a girl from Michigan who didn't even know the names of her own grandparents. I was appalled.  I can tell you the names of most of my second, third, and fourth cousins.

I cherish the fact that we talk slower, and generally are not in such a hurry. I remember the first time I ever went to New York City, feeling stress just from being in the city, where there were almost no birds or trees, and there were huge crowds of people. It didn't feel like a friendly, welcoming place to me. Ditto for Chicago and Philadelphia. Drop me into Macon Georgia or Raleigh North Carolina, though, and I will feel right at home. I will not feel stressed out. 

I love visiting big cities, but I don't want to live there. [Just fyi I live in Tucker, not downtown Atlanta. My life is far more rural than you might imagine.]

I embrace the diversity of my home. I have friends of all races and religions. Sometimes outsiders think everyone in the south is just an inbred redneck. That's laughable. In Tucker Georgia you can get a great Indian meal, a wonderful Thai meal, Mexican food, Peruvian food, etc. 

I have a dear friend who is black, whose wife is white. He grew up in New Jersey. I asked him recently why he preferred to live in the rural south. He said "Because there is less racism down here." Amen, brother.

Thanks for reading. Don't get offended easily. Don't be bitter, y'all. It's a waste of energy.

 

 

Keeping Cool in Extreme Heat

I used to have a friend who said hotter than dammit. My own personal favorite is "hotter than chicken fried hell." My son complained about the heat in the car yesterday. I just said "It's almost July and we live in Atlanta. DUH."

I have little patience for people living in the south who complain about the heat. People who just moved here get something of a pass, though. It takes time to readjust your thinking. Summer should be thought of in terms of heat avoidance strategies.

If I lived in New York State or Maine and it was over 90 I would probably complain. LOUDLY. 

I saw on the news the other night that this weekend it's REALLY hot across the northern part of this country. ABC News reported this story: Temperatures near 100 degrees across northeast as heatwave blazes on -- and even I, lifelong southerner, thought DANG. Over 100 is hot, y'all. Those temps are expected to continue through July 4th, too.

People always say to me "Why would I want to live in Atlanta? It's too hot down there!"

I just looked at our temperatures for the next few days. Highs between 88 and 90, with a 40-60% chance of rain. That will be cooler than Vermont, y'all. 

Here in Hot-Lanta we have nice weather about 9 months of the year and it's hot 3 months of the year. It rarely snows. 

I digressed. Back to my point.

Since I have lived here all my life, I understand how to keep cool when it's super hot outside. I go into Heat Avoidance Mode [HAM] when the temperatures are expected to head over 90.

I think in the north, where a "hot" summer day is 82 degrees, for example, there's the mindset that in the summer you get outside and do activities all day. You might go biking at 2 p.m. You might play soccer at 4 p.m. Here in the South, we don't do that. Whatever outdoor activities we do, we do when it's not the hottest part of the day. 

When I am driving somewhere on a hot summer day and I see someone running down the road when it's 90 degrees I just want to stop my car and slap the fool out of that person and go DO YOU WANT TO GO TO THE ER?!? You don't RUN when it's 95 degrees and the humidity is 80%. DANG.

My father used to routinely ignore weather warnings and do things like mow the lawn when it was 90 degrees, in the blazing sun. I have seen him have heat exhaustion more times than I can count. It's scary.

 

So here are Dee's Rules for Keeping Cool:

1. Stay in an air conditioned building between 11 a.m. and 7 p.m., if possible. If you have to leave an air conditioned building, go to the pool, or lake, or beach, and get in the water a lot. 
2. Do not live or work in a building that isn't air conditioned. This is crucial. In the South most buildings have air conditioning and it gets used a lot.
3. Take bottled water [or any sort of cool drink except alcohol] everywhere. I never leave the house without a cold bottle of water in my purse. If I am going to be outside, even if it's morning or early evening, I have a bottle of water close by.
4. Dress for the weather. Don't wear wool. Don't wear pantyhose. Wear cotton and linen, fabrics that breathe. Try not to wear blazers unless it's a really formal occasion and you have no choice. Wear shorts and tank tops even if you don't have a perfect bod. Nobody cares.
5. Make sure your car air conditioner works. Do not rely on rolled down windows. 
6. Do NOT do any sports outside [except water sports] if it's over 85 degrees. You risk heat stroke, which is a real thing and can lead to death.  If you are a runner, it's particularly important not to run during the hottest part of the day, mid to late afternoon. 
7. Watch the weather report on TV, or check it online, or listen to the radio. Be aware, every day, of how hot it will get during the day, and plan accordingly.
8. Don't leave pets or children in the car. Every year, pets and children DIE when left in hot cars. 

If you follow my rules, you will have a more pleasant summer and you will probably not wind up in the ER with heat exhaustion or heat stroke.