Speak Like A Local


I’ve developed a nut sensitivity; specifically, pecans.  I’m fine, in fact overjoyed to eat them, or consume their essence infused into a rich porter.  But when a couple of years ago I walked by a pie caller at the North Carolina State Fair announcing the availability of both [pee-kan] and [pe-kahn] pie, I realized that simultaneously there was a 50/50 chance I’d been mispronouncing it my whole life, and I couldn’t remember how I’d been pronouncing it.  Whatever I’d been saying, it was with very little thought until that point, apparently.

I’ve taken a few informal polls of locals in various pecan producing territories on the correct pronunciation.  My scientific method must be flawed, because when presented with the two options, only one person has claimed with any conviction to know the answer.

“[Pe-kahn.]” Said the locally-born bartender at Batch, in the Hyatt French Quarter.  At the time, he was busy mixing me a house specialty called the Pecan Bourbon Manhattan, which I vowed to marry on the spot.  If both marriage to cocktails and bigamy were to be legal anywhere, it would be New Orleans, no?  I’ll share the recipe below so you can try it.  You’ll see, I’m not totally nuts (only HalfNuts).  It’s that good.

So, I have it on shaky authority that [pe-kahn] is how I should be pronouncing it.  But the dilemma does not end.  In ten days, am I flying into [Spoh-kain], or [Spoh-kan], or [Spoh-kahn]?

Pecan Bourbon Manhattan
Infused Pecan Bourbon
Sweet Vermouth
Chocolate Bitters

I don’t actually know in what ratios you should mix these.  It’s 2015; experiment!  You’ll find something you like and I won’t judge you.  As for the Infused Pecan Bourbon, good luck.  The bartender at Batch checked with the manager and found he could sell me a 750ml bottle of theirs (which they make in-house) for $100.  I won’t pay that for anything less than a 23 year old Pappy Van Winkle, so I found this fun looking little DIY online.  Slainte!

Seasonal Dysmorphia


I’ve realized that the number of weeks I spend in eager anticipation of the next season is exactly equal to the number of weeks left in that season when I become utterly disillusioned with it.

The last couple of days have been perfect here in the ole’ 919.  Mid eightys, low humidity, blue skies, and a breeze.  I’m enjoying days with my toes in the pool and the faint smell of coconut on my skin.

But you know what would be awesome?Sweaters.  Mulled cider.  Bonfires.  Football games. Chilly rain.  Orange and yellow leaves.

We’ve got a good 6-8 weeks left until we start seeing those changes around here so if any of my northerly friends notice it sooner and wouldn’t mind a house guest, drop me a line.