I can't tell you his name, but I can tell you he is a genius. A salesman far beyond the wares he sold, he is one who, indeed, could sell ice to an Eskimo. How do I know? Because I watched him for two days. And as I watched, I realized that everything I ever needed to know about success in this life, this man could teach me. So here goes:
1. Have a plan. He set up two tents, one with little dancing animals that were children magnets; the second, dresses for mom. His plan, entice the kids first.
2. Know your priority. He had two totally different products. Rarely did I see women detour into his tent to check out the

My husband Len loves the summer, not necessary because of the warm weather, but because of the traffic. The lack of it. As he heads to his office on the outskirts of downtown Atlanta, he can maneuver his speedball Trans Am flawlessly through the back roads and Interstates, and there's not a bus in sight. He can zoom past bus stops that are vacant of SUVs and mom and dad's kissing kids goodbye. He's a freebird - if only for the summer.

Me, well, there's a clock ticking inside me that craves routine - whether you call it organization, scheduling, systems, agenda, itinerary or routine, it adds rhythm to my soul. Maybe that comes from all the years of standing before a classroom of serendipitous adolescents, timing lectures down to the exact second and knowing precisely what would happen next. I like to know what comes next.

But as the cooler weather seeps into the cracks of my life and I know that fall is headed my way, I can feel a soothing peace take over. Routine is on its way. Oh, the joy of knowing what comes next.

As a child growing up in the North Georgia Mountains, I knew this for sure: this fall would be the same as last fall. I knew that my mama, daddy and me would cram into the cab of our pea-green pick-up truck and head over the mountain to the Hiawassee Fair; daddy would drive to Blairsville to fill his truck bed to the gills with stacks and stacks of cases of sorghum syrup for his friends back home; and as we had done in the summer, me and daddy would hitch Besse the mule to the bumper of the truck and head toward Ms. Ray's field to plant fall crops. Fall brought Homecoming at church, Friday night high school football games, and evenings after supper on the front porch, rocking in rhythm to the katydids and the light-show of the fire flies.

As a traveler, I've learned that routine isn't always best to follow. However, it is important to know where you're going.I concede that I map out the

itinerary to the point of knowing what city I will land in and where I will lay my head. Then, I leave much to chance. I've learned through experience that when you do, the unexpected brings more gratification and pleasure than you can possibly imagine. These moments are instruments in which to meet the locals, delight in their food, sing their songs, learn their ways, and most important of all, these experiences allow me to evolve into a much better human being. This is why I travel, and why I leave much to chance.

For our once-in-a-lifetime 2015 road trip, we planned for almost a year. We had always wanted to go to the Grand Canyon. We had longed to spend the night on a train in a sleeper car and eat in a dining car with white linen tablecloths. Since it was so far away, why not combine everything we've always wanted to do and make getting there and back just as spectacular? We used our "we might not ever do this again" mantra to lead our planning. So, my husband and I planned and planned and by the time May 15th arrived, we had every stop planned out perfectly.

Then, the rains came. In May, record rainfall flooded the southwest, and we were smack-dab in the middle of it all. Itineraries went right out the window, and in the end, we were glad they did. For if we had done everything according to our plans, we would have not met Jack Farley At the Mining Museum in Grants, New Mexico, who pointed us to an amazing exhibit Postcards from Route 66 just down the street a bit. If it hadn't been raining cats and dogs, we wouldn't have waited out the rain at the Big Texas Steak Ranch and watched a couple attempt the 72-ounce hunk of meat! We wouldn't have seen the rare suspension bridges barely hovering above many rivers whose banks were exploding due to the downpours. Missing Monument Valley in Utah would have been a monumental mistake. And Cadillac Ranch just wouldn't have been Cadillac Ranch without the foot of mud we had to slosh through to reach the submerged icons of Texas. Flying by the seat of your pants can be a very good thing.

Mayberry Days | Mount Airy | September 23-27
Yadkin Valley Pumpkin Festival | Elkin | September 26
Oktoberfest | Maggie Valley | October 2-3
John C. Campbell Fall Festival | Brasstown | October 3-4
Bascom Lamar Lunsford "Minstrel of Appalachia Festival | Mars Hill | October 3
Molasses Festival | Granite Falls | October 10
Oktoberfest | Asheville | October 10
Carolina Balloon Festival | Statesville | October 16 - 18
American Roots Music & Arts Festival | Raleigh | October 17-18
Woolly Worm Festival | Banner Elk | October 17-18
Highlands Culinary Weekend | Highlands | November 5-8
EAT + STAY = Mast Farm Inn

South Carolina

Euphoria | Greenville
September 17-20
EAT + STAY = Hyatt Greenville

Tennessee

National Storytelling Festival | Jonesborough
October 2-4
Craftsmen's Fair | Gatlinburg
October 8-25
EAT + STAY = Eureka Inn

Virginia

Thomas Jefferson Wine Festival | Poplar Forest | Forest
November 21
EAT + STAY = Peaks of Otter Lodge

West Virginia

Bridge Day | Route 19 | Beckley - Hico
October 17
EAT + STAY = Pipestem Resort

"Just go mom."
     Not the three little words that I had been told all my life I wanted to hear. The expected and anticipated "I love you" had morphed into "Just go mom."
     It was fall, a transforming time in the South, when the air is cooler and the ceiling converts to muted hues of red and yellows. The long, hot summer was over and with the new season's crispness, there came a time to slow down, to enjoy the wood-burning fires and accept its floating invitation to another time and place. The truth of the matter was that the paradox of fall, the dying of leaves and the shedding of life, was exactly what was happening to me; my life, as I knew it, was about to die.
     I was 48. When I was a little girl, I thought that was old; by the time I reached my early 40s, I still thought it was old but with age would come conquered dreams and predicted stability. I was wrong. Normally out-going and gregarious, I was isolated and withdrawn. My husband of 24 years had transformed a decade earlier into a man that I didn't know and didn't love, one who relied on alcohol, drugs and abuse to make his life worth living.
     "When are we going to leave," my children would ask. "Soon." I would respond knowing full well that soon could be years down the road.
     "I do have a plan," I assured myself. Although I had no job and little self-respect, scraps of paper in agendas and scribbles on calendars validated the escape never far from my mind.
     October 16, 2006, arrived with little fanfare, no signs of an imminent turning point. It was a replica of the day before, and surely the one to follow: sleeping late, coffee on the front porch swing, lunch, nap and TV. A lifestyle many craved, but it was killing me. My need for productive living had been stifled by my lack of love for my husband and for myself, and although my daughter pushed me for an outing every now and then, it was simply too hard. My son's uncanny savvy for laughter in almost every situation even proved too little, too late.  
     My best friend Cheri - the only one that remained after my husband scared all the others away - lived next door. She was 10 years younger, a blonde-haired beauty that made me wish I had half her looks and all her motivation. I watched as their family grew from two to four, loving the entire lot of them as my own. As a hairdresser, her schedule was flexible and most mornings were spent joining me for coffee on my front porch. I later realized she was watching and checking, making sure I was in one piece before she left for the day.
     It was getting dark outside. I was visiting next door and finally decided to pick my feet up and journey home. Like she did most times, Cheri walked me every step of the way, through her yard, through the adjoining fence, up the porch steps, and into my house. It was quiet.
     "You're back," he yelled from the darkness. "I've been waiting on you." The slur of his words and the sway of his body as he entered the room told his familiar drunken tale. My son and daughter appeared, as if on cue, as bitter words were spoken.
     I walked past my husband as if he were a ghost when he suddenly grabbed my shoulders, turning my face towards his. "I said, I've been waiting on you." His fingers dug into my flesh, begging for attention, gaining more intensity as his knuckles grew whiter. I tried to back away, but the grip was too tight. At once, his hands released my arms and traveled towards my neck, reaching around and forming a choke hold with his entire arm. I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe. "You will answer me when I call you," he shouted as he sloppily slammed me against a doorway, indifferent to those who watched. He was twice my size, and his intoxication only made him stronger, more aggressive, and I was fixed.
     From across the room, my son lunged forward, slamming into his father, tossing him off me and onto one wall, then another. It reminded me of his offensive line maneuvers on the football field, protecting his quarterback at all cost, then I realized his moves were meant to protect me. With his forearm, he held his father's body securely against a wall. He glanced around, and our eyes met.
     "Just go mom," he screamed. I'm not sure whether his words or actions broke my heart first. I was frozen. From both sides, my daughter and my friend echoed the words. My eyes were transfixed on my son. Over and over, he demanded, "just go mom." And finally, "it's time to let go." 
     The  night was filled with flashing lights, endless questions, and finally,  arrests and restraining orders. My husband's attempt on my life was topped off by his attempt on his son's life. After quiet descended and disbelief set it, I walked the same worn path toward home that I had walked every day, but this time, it would be my last.
     "You have to go." Cheri spoke first as my children nodded in silence. "It'll never get any better, you know that. They want you to go. They want you to be safe. We'll pack everything tonight, and you'll never have to come back."
     Over the next few hours, I grabbed everything that meant anything to me. From photo albums to paintings, silverware to shoes, Christmas decorations to deeds and passports, I stuffed my vehicle with all it could hold and left the majority of 24 years behind.
     Around midnight, my children and I stood in the front yard looking back at our home. I remembered when we would drag old quilts to the rise in the front yard, spread them out and plop down for hours watching the stars dance in the summer sky. We laughed about the endless family birthday parties on the deck with grandma and papa. I remembered carrying Ty through the front door for the very first time. And there, in the back yard, the place where we had buried Spot, our beautiful red dog with not a marking on his coat. What had happened to all those moments? Who was I then, and more importantly, who had I become?
     I drove out of my driveway for the last time with nothing inside me but a belief that my children's love and conviction would be enough to rescue me. The next few months tested this notion with constant moves, little money, and feelings of inadequacy that were finally overturned by a good Samaritan who gave me a job based on his gut feeling.
     Paths define people. Mine, like the one from Cheri's house to my front door, had become well-worn, crumpled into a singular route, with no promise of deviation. My life had become a passageway of self-doubt, verbal and physical abuse, and uncontrollable circumstances that I unwittingly allowed to take control. I forgot to see what possibilities lived just beyond my reach. I stopped listening, stopped dreaming, and lived within the barriers that I had built around me.
     "What did you mean by 'let go'" I asked my son a few days later.
     "It's like this," he began with his 16-year-old wisdom. "I miss you, mom. I have watched what dad has done to you for so long. All of us have tried to talk sense into you forever, but you wouldn't listen." I opened my mouth to speak which he quickly covered my lips with his fingertips. "You wouldn't listen," he said boldly. "We've all tried. Now, we're out of that mess, and you have to get over it."
     The answer for all 16-year-olds - to simply get over something.
     "Remember what you always tell me," he continued. "What you do from this point on can change everything. It's not what came before, it's what happens right now. So, there. There's your answer. Stop feeling sorry for yourself, and figure out what comes next."
     That night, I broke the decade-long cycle of domestic violence and took that first step, which as anyone who has ever lived this life will tell you, is the hardest. Over the next couple of months, with the help of Cheri and my children, I decided to take charge of the remains of my life and reconstruct my path. I had nothing to lose.
     A month later, the four of us huddled around an outdoor coffee shop table in the cool November air, and I wrote on a scrap of paper three concrete goals to accomplish in the next three months - a job, a car, a home. By spring, I had all three including a new purpose for living.
     I have always heard you have to hit rock bottom before you truly know the power that lives within. Releasing my past failures, as well as my successes, launched me toward the understanding of what was possible if I only start with a clean slate. It was incredibly hard, but I figured, my children and I were worth every ounce of sweat. I will admit that I haven't totally erased that night, or those troubled years, from my memory, for I often wonder what would have become of all of us if we had stayed. At that very moment, I remember those sage words of my 16-year-old - "it's time to let go"- and how his words changed the course of my life.  

They are cat people and along with two others, there's Nathan, a 10-month old garbage dump kitty who demanded Janet take him home that day. She did. Although mostly confined to their living quarters, he runs the place. He makes excellent coffee with that fabulous Juva coffee machine (which upon looking up purchasing information, decided I'll just go back to Aska for the next 15 years and enjoy theirs).

Yes, Nessa, this is a dream job. It's an exhausting one, too. And on occasions, a sad one, for there are endless one-time shots and regrettable goodbyes. It's amazing to think that because of what we do, this provides us an opportunity to cross paths with people that we would have never met in a million years. For that, we are grateful, and we promise to share the stories of the  unforgettable.

Janet and Ric are unforgettable.

And so were the pillows. Here's a sure-fire test to rate the experience: if you find yourself sleeping so well on their pillows, that you actually search for the tag, take a picture of it, and order them immediately when you arrive home, the experience rocked!

Go visit Nathan's mom and dad in paradise at Aska Lodge in Blue Ridge.  Tell them Judy and Len sent you and that they are missed.

when i first married len, he told me amazing stories of his mother's immigrant family, grandfather salvatore and grandmother angelina lentine. how they arrived from sicily traveling through ellis island, speaking no english and carrying few belongings and many dreams hoping that these would be enough in a new country. how they carved out a home for their growing family in new jersey where their descendents still remain.

how angelina raised her seven children alone once her young husband died, laboring and resolving to make it a happy and productive home. how she raised chickens and would gather the fullness of her apron at her waist, filling it with the day's supply of eggs. how she spent many years in mourning and dressed in black because of the loss of her husband and many children. how she would sit at the phone, dressed in black, calling on children and neighbors daily just to see how everyone was doing. how she would tell her girls to "make dinner and don't ask me what to make" because she had worked hard enough during the day to think any more.

how she would work in the kitchen with eager children watching, making gnocchi so fast that her fingers were blurred by speed. how she was ask len in her blend of italian and broken english to "fikisit lenny" (fix it) and when he would, she would praise him with "looka lika brand new".

i didn't know angelina but i know her kind. the kind who would cling to the words of her mother, remembering what she had been taught as a child and knowing that if she followed those rules, she would make it. a woman who despite the loss of her husband would forge through giving little thought (in public) to the fact that she was alone. it was only in her private moments that the tears would come, if they came at all. a woman who had the respect and love of her children and even though she was as tough as nails, they loved her and somewhere in the back of their mind, wanted to be just like her. a woman whose grandchildren marveled at the table before them, the italian delicacies of lasagna and meatballs and manocotti, all homemade with, well, secrets she never disclosed. a woman with such strength and resolve that it made your head spin. 

i hope len never forgets angelina and the way she called him 'lenny' when no one else in the world dare would. i hope he doesn't forget her misshapen fingers working at the speed of sound assembling traditional feasts for her family. i hope i never forget the power of a woman to hold a family together despite death and struggle.

so each time i make and enjoy cucidati, i think of angelina, her family and her beginnings. i hope that she'll have this inkling of a southern lady trying to be just a little sicilian and a whole lotta strong.

dough
4 cups all-purpose flour
1½ tablespoons baking powder
¼ teaspoon salt
½ cup sugar
1 cup vegetable shortening
1 egg
1 tablespoon vanilla extract
½ cup milk

sift flour, baking powder, and salt in a large mixing bowl. whixk in sugar and combine well. cut in the shortening with a fork or pastry blender and work the mixture until it looks like cornmeal. in a separate bowl whisk together the egg, vanilla and milk. add the egg mixture to the flour mixture and mix with an electric mixer for a full 3 minutes. dough will be soft. remove from bowl and knead by hand for 5 minutes. divide the dough into 4 equal pieces, wrap each with plastic wrap and refrigerate for at least 45 minutes.

filling
1 cup dried figs
1 cup dried dates, pitted
¾ cup raisins
½ cup walnuts, chopped or ground in food processor
½ teaspoon ground cinnamon
¼ cup honey
¼ cup orange marmalade
grind figs, dates, and raisins in a food processor until coarse. add the remaining ingredients.
(i mix these a day before i assemble. i leave them in the frig overnight which seems to make the gooey goodness so much richer. use sourwood honey for a touch of southern sweetness.)

work with one piece of dough at a time. on a floured surface, roll the dough into squares - about 3" by 3". use an ice cream scoop and gather filling and place in the middle of each square. pull the edges over top, and pinch to seal.
(my cookies never look the same. the more filling i can get inside, the better. don't worry about looks; once you drizzle sugar and sprinkles on top, you'll forget about how 'creative' you have been.)

icing
2 cups powdered sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
4 tablespoons milk (approximately)
colored sprinkles (optional)
mix together, adding only enough milk to achieve desired consistency. make sure it is still thick, not runny. drizzle on the tops of the cookies, then sprinkle with color. let them set before storing in airtight container.

(it takes about 2 days for these to completely disappear. as good as they are, they are still all about family and tradition. enjoy!)