Are you afraid of death? What about it scares you?

How do you want your life to end?

How can you support the end-of-life wishes of those you love?

These questions aren’t common dinner party conversation starters, but Death Over Dinner isn’t just any dinner party. This one-night event, held last Saturday at Serenbe, put a taboo topic on the table and had us chew on it awhile.

It was hosted by Angel Grant, executive director of Death Over Dinner, an organization based on the theory that “how we end our lives is the most important and costly conversation America is not having.”

The event was a two-part experience, though both were optional: a guided meditation and dinner afterwards. For the meditation, we laid on the floor in a dark room with a blanket and pillow as Angel talked us through the process of the final 8 hours of our lives. She asked many questions along the way to make us think about the way we live and how we want to die. She even took us through the process of our organs shutting down. And while this may sound morbid, it demystified the end-of-life process. If you’re not afraid of death — if you’re conscious that you’re really dying every day — you can live a fuller life.

After the meditation, we took an hour-long break to journal then met back up in the Oak Room for dinner and discussion. Steve and I were both raised by parents who didn’t shield us from the realities of death and we were thrilled to be surrounded by people willing to talk with great honesty on the subject.

Our first dinner topic involved acknowledging someone no longer with us and explaining why we admire them. After we’d gone around the table, Steve and I realized we had the most experience with death. All of our dining companions had living parents but us. I lost my father when I was 22 and my mother at 38. Having a parent die is a very intimate experience with death and was especially so with my mother, who died here over a two-week process at Serenbe.

Death Over Dinner didn’t bring up any fear or anxiety in me: It gave me the opportunity to reflect on Mother’s death and reaffirmed that I’m comfortable with the death process — my own and others. Though I may be afraid of the way I might die, I’m not afraid of dying. And I think that leaves a lot more room in my life for living.

Curious about Angel and her talks? Join me June 3-5 for The Taboo Weekend Sex, Drugs, Death: Things We Don’t Talk About at the Table, a weekend of taboo topics at Serenbe. Click here for more information.

Everyone travels to New Orleans with a meal in mind.

For some, it’s a dozen raw oysters and bottle of beer at ACME Oyster House. For others, it’s the catfish courtbouillon at Cochon. For Steve and I, it’s the muffuletta we pick up at Central Grocery on our way to the airport and share as we fly back home.

We made our ninth visit to the Crescent City a few weeks ago: Steve had an Urban Land Institute meeting focused on food and development and asked if I wanted to join. I went for the same reason I always do: to experience the city with an open mind and open mouth.

We arrived on Sunday morning and I was overcome with a craving for pompano almandine, so I convinced Steve to go to Gallatoire’s. We were seated next to a couple who’d been going there every Sunday since forever. The waitress knew exactly what to bring without even asking. Determined not to be a creature of habit, Steve ordered a bourbon milk punch — he’s usually a Campari and soda man — loved it and said his broiled tomatoes were the best he’d ever had.

After lunch we strolled up Magazine Street, taking in the boutiques and galleries along the way. At some point, my shoes and feet had a painful disagreement and I had to buy new shoes. When I came out of the shop wearing Keds slip-ons, Steve just looked at me. Forget vanity, I told him, my feet are killing me.

We walked all the way to La Petite Grocery, where we had beautiful ricotta dumplings with hen of the woods mushrooms. Light as air.

Steve had Monday morning free, so we had lunch at Peche, which won two James Beard awards — Best New Restaurant and Best Chef: South — in 2014. And believe me, they deserved it. Every single mouthful was amazing. We had fresh oysters, fish sticks, fried Brussels sprouts with chili vinegar and sashimi tuna with pickled wild mushrooms, arugula and a vinaigrette that must’ve included some form of crack. If I had to do it over again, I’d order two of them.

That night, as part of the conference, Steve had dinner at a private home cooked by John Besh. I was not invited and may have pouted about that a bit. I so enjoyed John when he visited for the Southern Chefs Series.

I made plans to meet up with Rosie, one of Kara’s best friends who’d moved to New Orleans with her family. We originally planned to have Vietnamese, but I decided that if Steve was eating John Besh’s food, then I would too, so I made a reservation at Lüke. I texted Steve to tell him I was pining away but consoling myself at Besh’s brasserie.

Rosie and I made a progressive dinner of it and started at Mopho, where Michael Gulotta, former chef de cuisine at Besh’s August, makes some fantastic spring rolls and popcorn rice.

When we got to Lüke, they took us to a table right by the kitchen and treated us like royalty. Turns out, Steve told John Besh I was headed to one of his spots and he called ahead. We shared oysters, I had gumbo, Rosie had pate and a salad and we were too full for the pork schnitzel I wanted to try. When the bill came, it said, “too beautiful to charge.” If I couldn’t have John cook for me, I certainly had the next best thing.

By Tuesday morning you’d think I’d had enough food to last me a week, but I woke up hungry for an adventure. I got our muffuletta at Central Grocery and took a cab to St. Claude Street. At the conference, Steve learned about the St. Roch Market, seafood market that shut down after Katrina and had been re-launched as a food hall.  It was exquisitely done, with a bar, coffee shop, oyster bar, juice bar, produce market and Korean-Creole spot where I had a fantastic bibim bowl.

Followed by a muffaletta.  Oh New Orleans. Something about that city just does not inspire moderation.

Today, the word “Serenbe” represents our community and everything in it, from the Inn and spa to the farm and a calendar full of events. But in the fall of 1996, it began its life on a sign outside our little bed and breakfast.

Or so I thought. More on that later.

That one little word quickly became a conversation piece. And to this day, the No. 1 question people ask us is: What’s the story behind the name?

Over the years, I’ve parceled out pieces of the story — a drive down a country back road; a hidden folk-art mecca — but until now I’ve never sat down and told the whole from start to finish. There are so many good stories behind the beginnings of Serenbe, but this one put the magic in motion:

In the spring of 1996, Steve and I hopped in the car one weekend and headed to Americus, Georgia. We loved doing drives along country back roads — it’s the way we found what is now Serenbe — but I can’t recall why we decided to make Americus our destination. A circa 1892 hotel? Habitat for Humanity headquarters? It doesn’t matter. We just loved to take our time and explore.

As we cruised down a tiny two-lane road, I got lost in thought about the farm and what it meant to me. How it was a place to be serene. And in my mind, the words “serene” and “be” became Serenbe. It instantly felt right. I knew that second that I’d just named the bed and breakfast we’d open in the fall.

Either a short time before or after, I noticed a faded old sign deep in the trees with nothing more than the word Pasaquan and an arrow. I’d never heard of Pasaquan, but something about it struck me. I said to Steve, let’s turn and see what it’s about.

Turns out, Pasaquan is an unbelievably fascinating folk art installation. I’m not talking about a few sculptures in a field or some small shack full of outsider art. It’s a seven-acre compound with four acres of brightly painted concrete walls and six structures, including a farmhouse. There are totem poles, painted snakes and peacocks — all in concrete. It was created by Eddie Owens Martin, who later called himself St. EOM. He was a sharecropper’s son who returned to his homestead in the 1950s after many years in New York City when his mother died and left him the land.

Pasaquan was the manifestation of a vision he had to create a peaceful place. Since Martin’s suicide in 1986, Pasaquan has been preserved and is on the U.S. Register of Historic Places. His work has been displayed from New York to L.A. and in Atlanta’s own High Museum. But for most of his life, he was known as the village fool.

When we arrived, at Pasaquan, we walked around alone for quite awhile before meeting Gwen, Martin’s protégé, who gave us a tour. It was just wild and we’ve returned many times to share the experience with friends.

We traveled on to Americus, which was ho-hum, but I’ve always felt an invisible string connects the naming of Serenbe with our discovery of Pasaquan in the same 30-minute time frame. Just as people thought Martin was insane for creating his vision, people thought we were nuts to build a town in our backyard. First they call you crazy, then they honor you as a visionary.

Fast forward to 2011. I’d gone to England for a conference, as I do as often as possible. England and Ireland are sacred ground to me and always feels like a return to my roots. While I was speaking to another woman about Serenbe, a groundskeeper approached, politely waited for our chat to conclude, and asked if I knew that Serenbe is an ancient Gaelic blessing meaning to be of the stars.

It was one of the most exquisite synchronicities I’d ever experienced. In that moment, I realized that what I’d thought was an original word wasn’t original at all, but a word my ancestors used hundreds of years before.

It didn’t feel like a job well done message from beyond  — it felt like a blessing. And a confirmation of the magic that is, and has always been, Serenbe.

In last week’s post, I wrote about the many years of magic behind the new Rural Studio artist cottage at Serenbe. The cottage itself is a big, bright feather in Serenbe’s cap and being connected with Rural Studio is a dream come true for our community. But what makes this space special isn’t just the partnership or the plans—as we all know, it’s what’s inside that matters most.

We wanted the cottage—a 2BR divided into two private areas—to have the same look and feel as the rest of Serenbe’s spaces: casual, chic and elegantly efficient. Atlanta has a huge design community and calling any number of our connections wouldn’t have been a problem at all. But we needed someone willing to take on the projects pro bono. Two someones, actually.

We lucked into Kerry Howard of KMH Interiors and Steve McKenzie of Steve McKenzie’s, two designers who were intimately acquainted with Serenbe through committees and former projects. In addition to the lengthy list of donors and sponsors, both were incredibly generous with their time, talents and resources.

Because of them, the cottage turned out amazingly charming. Temporary artist housing has a reputation for being spartan but both area very warm and welcoming. Connected by shared deck meant to inspire collaboration, the writer’s space is very 50’s retro and the painter’s quarters is a bit more contemporary. In the writer’s cottage, the desk, donated by a Serenbe resident, faces the woods and an old pie safe works well with quartz countertops. The painter’s cottage is a bit looser, with lots of open spaces for the artist to configure their own arrangement, and a gorgeous end table made from reclaimed mill beams.

As the Art Farm grows and expands, so will our number of Rural Studio cottages. Right now, one is being broken in by Anis Mojani, a spoken word poet and our newest artist in residence. I hope he can feel the community that came together to create his space. I hope it feels like home.

Fifteen years ago, I read an article about Rural Studio and fell in love with the philosophy, the architecture—all of it. Something really struck me about Auburn’s off-campus architecture program where students design and build affordable housing out of recycled materials for residents in the poorest county in Alabama.

Affordable housing is often synonymous with uninspired design, but Rural Studio’s spaces—which include a library, town hall, senior center, playground and more—have a magical quality to them. I think it’s because they understand that beauty matters to everyone, not just those who have money. And as the self-appointed Director of Beauty at Serenbe, this subject is near and dear to my heart.

So I followed their work for years, never for one second imagining it would wind up in my backyard.

Tom Swanston, an artist and former Serenbe resident, followed it, too. And his eyebrows went up when Rural Studio debuted their 20K Home Project, named for, according to their website, “the highest realistic mortgage a person receiving median Social Security checks can maintain.” These genius alternatives to mobile homes came to be after the mayor of New Orleans called in the wake of Katrina, asking for plans for houses that can be put up quickly. Rural Studio went a step further, making them efficient both in terms of energy use and living.

That’s when Tom started emailing them. He was a big supporter of Serenbe’s Artists in Residence (AIR Serenbe) program and felt passionately about having housing for artists. He sent emails; they ignored him. He sent more emails; they continued to ignore him … along with the thousands of other people asking to collaborate.

And then one day they didn’t ignore him anymore.

Because of Tom, Serenbe and Rural Studio sat at a table together and discussed the future. We needed their cottages for our artists; they needed to put their product somewhere besides Newbern, Alabama. They came to see us and we went to see them. Magic was made.

And it didn’t end there. Serenbe’s Rural Studio cottage, debuted early last month located at The Art Farm at Serenbe—gorgeously designed by Steve McKenzie of Steve McKenzie’s and Kerry Howard of KMH Interiors, two Atlanta based designers who donated their time and talent.

Wonder what they look like inside? Join me next week for part two, where I brag on the designers and show off the homes they created out of houses.

Kara has wanted to have babies since she was 10 years old. Unlike Garnie and Quinn, she loved baby dolls and spent hours naming, diapering and giving them bottles. She also loved real babies just as much and babysat as soon as she could. After she graduated college in 2008, she created Camp Serenbe and spends all year creating a special summer experience for kids 3-13.

My little Kara has always been a mama at heart.

So when she said she had a little gift for us when they visited in November, I had an inkling good news was on the way. And sure enough, she and Micah presented Steve and I with a little onesie they’d made that says “Carry Me To Serenbe.”

We were beyond thrilled.

It was our little secret until Christmas, when she made it — as the kids say these days — Facebook Official. Within what felt like seconds, people were coming up and congratulating me and almost everyone wants to know the same thing: What will the baby call you?

This fascinates me. I called my grandmothers Granny and Grandmother — very traditional. Steve was the first-born grandchild on both sides, so he coined the names Pampa for his grandfather and Hun for his grandmother.

For a long time, I thought it would be cute to make Marie into Re-Re, but now there’s a part of me that really wants to embrace Grandmother. And it’s less about the historical aspect and more about moving into the next stage of life. I think there’s something wonderful about honoring the transition from mother to grandmother.

Pop quiz time, people: Which of the following dishes is not a classic example of Southern cooking?

A. Fried chicken

B. Shrimp and grits

C. Chicken and dumplings

D. None of the above

Stumped? It’s B. Though everyone below the Mason-Dixon these days has their own recipe and signature twist, shrimp and grits didn’t start swimming onto menus until the late 90s. What began as a fisherman’s breakfast in the Carolina low country has evolved into an entrée often embellished with exotic mushrooms and bacon.

I had shrimp and grits for the first time in the mid 90s at my dear friend Austin Ford’s house. Austin loves Creole cooking, has stacks of Creole cookbooks and served shrimp and grits for a luncheon. I thought it was utterly delicious and loved it ever since.

In the summer of 1999, Garnie and Kara opened a restaurant at the Inn, which was still a B&B at the time, and needed a few solid recipes for their menu. I asked Austin for his shrimp and grits recipe and it was such a success I featured it on the Farmhouse menu when I took it over in 2009.

People think it’s absolutely loaded with butter, which isn’t true at all — it’s the combination of chicken stock and olive oil that gives Austin’s version its creamy, decadent flavor.

Do it buffet-style for a party: the shrimp sauce can be made ahead of time and refrigerated and the grits can also be prepared in advance and warmed in the oven or in a bain-marie on the stove.

Austin Ford’s Garlic Shrimp and Grits

• 2 pounds wild caught shrimp, peeled and deveined
• 9 garlic cloves , minced
• 3/4 cup olive oil
• 1 cup chicken broth
• 1/8 cup lemon juice
• 1 1/2 teaspoons kosher salt
• 3/4 tablespoon Tabasco sauce
• 1 tablespoon parsley, chopped
• 1 recipe creamy stoneground grits

Heat oil in saute pan and cook the garlic for 30 seconds.

Add chicken broth and lemon juice.

Season with salt, pepper, and Tabasco sauce

Add shrimp and cook 1 – 2 minutes until pink.

Place hot grits in large serving bowl. Pour shrimp and hot liquid over grits.

Garnish with parsley.

When I think of Anne Quatrano, I think of her foie gras. Sure, I think of our friendship, her dry wit and annual visits to the ‘Be for the Southern Chefs Series, but mostly I think of her foie gras at Bacchanalia. It’s the best in the city.

Anne has a way of making food taste exquisitely delicious and look like art—both are equally important to her. So I had to laugh when I read her recipe for Wood Oven-Roasted Whole Foie Gras in her gorgeous cookbook, Summerland.

She walks readers through the process of marinating the whole lobe of foie gras in dessert wine, then roasting it in a pan lined with fresh figs. In the very last sentence, she writes, “Present immediately to your guests in the roasting pan for them to admire, then transfer to a warm platter … .”

Anne has such a style. And a fun flair for the dramatic.

Join Anne and me January 24 and 25 for another installment of the Southern Chefs Series. So much to learn, cook, eat and, of course, admire.

Space is limited to 10 participants per class. $695 includes preparing and eating dinner on Sunday and lunch on Monday with the chef, plus an overnight stay at the Inn at Serenbe. To register, call the Inn at 770.463.2610.

Wood Oven-Roasted Whole Foie Gras

• Courtesy of Summerland
• Serves 4 to 6

• 1 whole lobe (1 ½ pounds) foie gras
• 1 (375 ml) bottle sweet or dessert wine
• 1 tablespoon kosher salt
• Freshly cracked pepper
• 1 pound fresh figs (12 to 14), stems removed and halved
• 4 sprigs fresh rosemary
• 4 sprigs fresh thyme

Place the foie gras in a baking dish and generously douse with the wine. Season with the salt and refrigerate, covered with plastic wrap, for 12 to 24 hours.

Allow the foie gras to come to room temperature (about 1 hour). Preheat a wood oven or conventional oven to 500 degrees F.

Re-season the foie gras with a sprinkling of salt and pepper. Pour off any remaining wine marinade and reserve. Score the lobe on the diagonal, at 1/8-inch intervals, to make a cross-hatch pattern. Line a roasting pan with the fresh figs, rosemary and thyme sprigs, then set the foie gras on top.

Brush the foie gras with the reserved marinade and add about ¼ cup to the bottom of pan. Roast for about 15 minutes. Keep a careful eye on it and rotate and baste it with the marinade and rendered fat from the pan every 2 minutes. If the foie appears to be browning too quickly, loosely tent the top with aluminum foil.

After about 15 minutes, the internal temperature should reach 135 degrees F. Present immediately to your guests in the roasting pan for them to admire, then transfer to a warm platter and garnish with the figs and sprigs of herbs from the pan.