“To be happy you must have taken
The measure of your powers, tasted the
Fruits of your passion, and learned
Your place in the world”
-Santayana
It is no surprise Blackberry Farm was named the number one resort in North America by Travel and Leisure last year. It is my favorite place in the world. This pastoral piece of heaven is in the Great Smokey Mountains just South of Knoxville, TN and revolves around gourmet, local, and artisanal food. Days are spent eating but for short interruptions to fly fish, hike, enjoy a wine tasting, explore the gardens, watch the sheep (and their guard lamas), and, if you are lucky, encounter the truffle dogs. The service is impeccable and the beds memorable. Best of all, after every single bite of food, you will be tempted to say, “this is the best I have ever had.”
John's Facebook Default Picture
There is one man who sets this inn apart from the rest. The master gardener, John Coykendall, is a Renaissance man passionate about collecting beans. I was lucky enough to stumble into his garden during my first visit to Blackberry Farm; hours later, I left promising to write and return again soon. One year later my family was lucky enough to visit again; this time, we came with my 93 year old grandfather. We headed straight to see John. He welcomed us with open arms and said he had been looking forward to our visit. After another afternoon in the garden, my grandfather left promising to write and return again soon. John could capture the heart of a 20 year old and a 93 year old. The plates in the dining barn are rimmed with his etchings; he carries a sketchbook with him at all times; he is a personal friend to every white beet or walking onion in the garden. John just returned from a trip to Romania where he “collected many new beans and friends,” as he wrote in a recent letter to me. I hang his letters on my wall as art because his handwriting is so beautiful and because the pages are peppered with drawings.
My family at Blackberry Farm in 2011
John has the bluest eyes I have ever seen. They sparkle as he talks and make you question if his wrinkles and white hair are real. He wears overalls everyday and showers me in gifts of black butterbeans, lemongrass, and praise. But I wonder if the outfit is simply a costume. I know there is more to this mystery man. He lives on Scenic Drive; he has the means to travel the world; his closest relatives are senators. He is too serene, too generous, too kind, too loving. When asked what he did before he came to Blackberry Farm, winking he says, “oh, nothing as wonderful as this.” Who IS this person? He is just like Blackberry farm – magical.
“When shall we live if not now?” ― M.F.K. Fisher
Inspired by The Gastronomical Me by M. F. K. Fisher.
I have eaten with Presidents (of Colleges and Universities), shared food with CEOs, and broken bread at the tables of some of the fanciest restaurants in the world, but never have I been so nervous, so conscious and aware of my movements than today when I had tea with an even bigger foodie than I. This woman, this matriarch of food studies here at Davidson College, has been immersed in food studies for more decades that I have been alive. During our first day of class I mused, “Do you know the origins of Thanksgiving?” Humble as always, she shared that the national day of feasting in fact has nothing to do with Pilgrims or Indians, but rather began after the Civil War in hopes to inspire a sense of nationalism within our war-torn county. While factoids like this make great cocktail talk, this independent study is an investigation into the foundations of food literature. Of course, we began with Proust’s passage on the power of the petite madeleine cookie. As any good foodie would do, our professor brought these scalloped bits of heaven for us to experience.
The class is small, just two of us and the Goddess of Food. We sat around an antique wooden table as literally hundreds of books were piled around of us – all about food, I liked to imagine. As my hand was shaking from tilting the too-heavy tea kettle, I realized just how nervous I was. I don’t like hot drinks due to deep seeded fear of being scalded, but, I yearned to have a transformative experience like Proust…knowing full well that I have never had a petite madeleine cookie in my life; so, double dipping would not recollect a world-full of memories for me.
Nevertheless, I had a first impression to make and I wanted it to be a damn good one! In the foodie world, dressed is what is done to a salad; I was eating to impress. I looked to my classmate; she had already downed her tea! Eating is so personal, so primal, but simultaneously it is a gateway into another’s soul. I was looking to her for direction, for help, but I was also aware of being compared to her. Meanwhile, I was still way too scared to even touch my tea for fear of searing off my taste buds! On the rare occasion that I had drunk tea to soothe a sore throat, I was in the privacy of my own home so I could slurp with a spoon. Not this time, so questions flooded my head. What do I do with the honey? Stir it in? What do I do with the tea bag? Will it stain the table if I take it out? Could, I too, dip my madeleine cookie in my tea, or was I not French enough?
All of these questions, fears, and worries were quickly pushed out of my mind after one bite of a tea-soaked petite madeleine. The cookie was airy, but chewy. It was light, not nearly as sweet as frosting or ice cream or even a chocolate chip cookie. In fact, I did not feel sick after my third one. It was hardly a cookie; it was more like a cupcake or cake. And this was hardly an interview but rather another example of food’s power to transform strangers into friends. While I did not suddenly feel extraordinary changes, I did feel as if I had entered into an exclusive circle of true foodies – Professor and Proust.
Inspired by a selection from The Remembrance of Things Past by Marcel Proust.
Pleasures of the Table 