The last little chick is officially back in the nest.

Kara and Micah packed up and left Seattle a few weeks ago, starting a glorious cross-country trip that ended at their new home in Serenbe.

They texted gorgeous pictures from Zion National Park in Utah, where Kara hiked five miles in her fifth month of pregnancy. They explored Santa Fe and crossed paths in Texas with Micah’s mother, Kristen, who was on her way to Joshua Tree. Kara reconnected with a sorority sister in Austin then they drove to New Orleans where they had beignets at Café du Monde, a muffaletta at Central Grocery and a fantastic meal at Peche.

After they arrived at Serenbe, Micah looked around and said, “This isn’t a visit. We’re actually going to live here.” They have a house in the Grange hamlet.

Steve and I decided that, now that all three girls are home, we’ll start having family dinner every Sunday night. Since Gerry Klaskala was here for the Southern Chefs Series on the first Sunday night after Kara and Micah’s arrival, I did a family breakfast instead. Ever since they started having sleepovers, the girls have loved a pancake breakfast. It was the one time Steve got in the kitchen.

I cracked open my 1956 edition of Joy of Cooking and flipped to my favorite pancake recipe. What makes it special is that you separate the eggs and whip the egg whites to make a better batter. After everything’s been sifted and whipped, all you need is a hot griddle — I prefer a cast-iron skillet — maple syrup and good butter.

We are complete now. People ask me all the time: How did you get all your kids to come home? And I usually say with a smile: You build a town and your kids might want to live there, too.

In all seriousness, the girls generally do like to hang out with us and it’s ultimately the most gratifying thing in the world that they want to live and work here.

Of course, the little boy in ever-growing belly makes it all the more special. Steve and I just look at one another and say, oh my God, we’re going to be grandparents. Every chance I get, I lean down and say, hello baby boy. I want him to know my voice.

And soon enough, there’ll be a brand new chick in the nest.

Pancakes, Griddle or Batter Cakes

• Courtesy of Joy of Cooking, circa 1956

• Makes about 14 four-inch cakes 

• Sift before measuring:
• 1 ½ cups all-purpose flour

• Resift with:
• 1 teaspoon salt
• 3 tablespoons sugar
• 1 ¾ teaspoons double-acting baking powder

•  Beat lightly:
• 1 or 2 eggs

When using 2 eggs, you may separate them. Add the yolks to the milk mixture. Beat the whites until stiff, but not dry and fold them lightly into the blended batter, after adding the milk and butter.

• Add:
• 3 tablespoons melted butter
• 1 to 1 ¼ cups milk

In last week’s post, I wrote about the rye toasts that chef Gerry Klaskala made during his visit to the Southern Chef Series. Today I’m back with more Gerry and — that’s right — more bread.

Months before his visit, Gerry told me he wanted to do an Alsatian theme to expose participants to recipes from the French region so heavily influenced by nearby Germany. And did he ever. Gerry brought three types of sausages, three kinds of pork, ham, roasted duck, boiled potatoes, different mustards and a big loaf of potato bread to make bread dumplings.

Oh my.

First he started by cooking the applewood-smoked bacon in a pan. You know, because we needed more pork. Then he added onions and added that mixture, plus nutmeg, parsley, salt and pepper, to the potato bread that had been cubed and toasted. After moistening it with chicken stock, he formed it into the shape of a sausage, wrapped it in cheesecloth, tied off the ends with cotton twine and poached it in a pot of boiling chicken stock. Then he sliced it up into discs and served it with the pork and its juices. It was amazing. Might have something to do with the fact that he cooked the bacon in fat rendered from the goose he cooked at Christmas.

There was nothing green about this dinner. The only vegetable was the cabbage he’d put up three months ago and brought with him. And we couldn’t get enough.

Gerry is easygoing and such a natural with the guests. He entertains at home a lot, which means he cooks all week at work, goes home and has dinner parties on Sundays. He does it because it loves it and it shows.

Join us at the next Southern Chefs Series with guest chef Ford Fry of JCT. Kitchen, No. 246, The Optimist, King + Duke and more. The experience includes preparing and eating dinner on Sunday and lunch on Monday with the chef, breakfast and an overnight stay at the Inn at Serenbe. $695; 770.463.2610

Bread dumplings

• Serves 8

• 1 tablespoon grapeseed oil
• 1 cup applewood smoked bacon, medium dice
• 1 ½ cup onion, small dice
• 3 quarts potato bread, cubed and toasted
• 2 each eggs, whisked well
• ¼ cup Italian parsley, coarsely chopped
• 2 each scallion, thinly sliced
• ¼ teaspoon nutmeg, freshly grated
• 1+ gallon chicken stock
• Salt and freshly milled black pepper

1. Heat a heavy-bottomed sauce pan, add oil and cook bacon until half cooked

2. Add onions and continue to cook until onions are soft. Remove from heat and set aside to cool.

3. In a large mixing bowl, place the toasted potato bread croutons and add onions, bacon, nutmeg and parsley. Season well with salt and pepper. Moisten with chicken stock and mix well.

4. Lay out a sheet of 20″ x 24″ cheesecloth. At one end, shape the dumpling mix into a large sausage shape. Tightly roll up and tie off each end with cotton twine.

5. Place chicken stock in a pot large enough to hold dumpling. Bring to a simmer and cook for 35 minutes. Shut off heat, cover and hold.

6. When ready to serve, remove from stock, cut strings and unroll. Cut into ¾-inch round discs.

Note: These particular bread dumplings are intended to be served with roasted meats and sauce or pan gravy. They are great for sopping up all that deliciousness.

Gerry Klaskala, chef-owner of Aria and co-owner of Canoe, arrived for his visit to the Southern Chefs Series with two freshly baked loaves of bread, European butter and sea salt to sprinkle on top. And as far as I’m concerned, he could’ve stopped right there.

(He didn’t, of course. More on that in another post).

The women were on my side: Each one said they could die happily on a belly full of bread and butter. The men said they’d prefer steak. And it struck me how those ancient rituals — men hunting; women baking bread — still feed our cravings centuries later.

Bread touches something deep within us; I think it’s a big reason that artisan breads have made such a comeback.

Gerry sliced the rye on a mandoline so it was razor thin, toasted and served it as part of the Sunday night dinner. My first bite jarred a childhood memory of the rye melba toasts I loved as an after-school snack when I was 10 years old. It was a box brand called Old London and I’d smear them with butter, sip Red Rock ginger ale and watch Bewitched.

Gerry topped his version with housemade cold-smoked salmon he’d marinated overnight in layers of coriander and cardamom, salt and pepper. The next morning he scraped off the spices and cold-smoked it, a process that makes the fish taste much less smoky than hot smoke. I don’t like smoked salmon for that exact reason, but this one had me salivating and figuring out two things:

1. How soon I could get to Aria to have more

2. How to make my own cold smoker

According to Gerry, all I need is a smoker, some galvanized pipe and a refrigerator. It’s genius and totally doable with a little help from Quinn’s boyfriend, Lucas.

This could very well be my new summer backyard décor.

Join me next week for more details about Gerry’s Alsatian-themed visit, featuring bacon cooked in goose fat he rendered after Christmas dinner.

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.