Homemade Fried Chicken and Other Things a Southern Writer Loves

Once upon a time, I tried to change my accent. I wanted more than anything to get rid of any hint of a twang.

But despite all the practice I did in my pink plastic hand mirror, the lilting vowels that immediately identified me as a Southern girl persisted.

It turns out you can’t outrun your roots. So, these days, I embrace them.

That means I say y’all. Maybe too much. And I revel in the vibrant and sometimes quirky culture that has created some of the greatest food and most brilliant fiction in history.

We’re talking buttermilk fried chicken cooling on a red gingham hand towel. Pickled peaches on the Thanksgiving table. Collard greens slick with fatback.

Harper Lee and Flannery O’Connor and Fannie Flagg.

Bold flavors and big words, the kind that get your hands dirty.

I’m a Southern girl – a writer and cook and mom. I write lighthearted mysteries about the South because I appreciate her humor, the way she turns stereotypes upside down and then back up again. She’s beautiful and vibrant and messy.

You’re welcome here. But you might want to grab an extra napkin on your way in.

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