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In: Canning & Recipes, Nonfiction, Way Back When
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My husband, imported from the Midwest, corrects me every time I call them stove eyes—he calls them burners—but we’re not cooking on gas and we’re in the South, my South, and I’ve always heard them called eyes and continue to do so. I grab a large-mouthed funnel, place it in a wide-mouthed jar, and . . . Continue Reading

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In: Fiction, Storytelling
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Anyways, when Mr. Hawkins-Mills arrived on their back porch that day, he was carrying a heavy block of ice to put in her icebox. With the sun still high in the sky, that ice just kept right on dripping all over the place. Mr. Hawkins-Mills slipped on the wet floorboards, and his ice pick . . . Continue Reading