|
W hat is it to be from the Lowcountry? Certainly not a zip code,
although those in 01 or 64 might disagree with me. Others speak
of the Holy City in terms of its beauty or history. Still others see,
rightfully so, a culinary nirvana to rival the Nation’s, if not the
world’s, favorite dining cities. I find us to be iconic—an opinion
heartily shared those who wear the pedigree “Carolinian.”
We love our icons here, be they revolutionary, seditious, pastoral,
senatorial or even mayoral. Perhaps we run somewhat narcissistically
because the remainder of the world, that area beyond the
Mark Clark, wants to be here so badly.
My first permanent sojourn here was a few weeks before a wee
African visitor by the name of Hugo arrived on the scene. Marooned
on the Isle of Palms with no water and a crab-seeking
Labrador named Rusty, I discovered, even in the scarred aftermath,
a fecund beauty that would stalk me stronger than a lover’s
memory. For me, pungency of a most striking nature in the form
of pluff mud transforms this odoriferous mix into myrrh. Water
oaks bow with the graciousness of gentry at Dinner on the
Grounds. Horizons shadow dance with testaments to God, be
they pines, palmettos or spires. Is it any surprise that our very
blood runs with exactly the same amount of salt and nutrients as
the Ashley and Cooper? Each morning illuminates the constant
change, but the constancy is in knowing that everything is the
same as it was and will be.
Edible Lowcountry, along with its sister publication in Atlanta,
is starting fresh as well, but not new. Robert and Amanda created
a beautiful magazine that attracted at least one admirer—me.
With luck and support, this will continue. Now, some things we
will do not everyone will agree with. I hope not and am thankful
for the right to do so. However, we WILL be a voice, not only
celebrating the land’s bounty, but also informing, educating and,
in some cases, cajoling as need be—all with the purpose of trumpeting
a return to the land, or the sea as the case may be, and to
reestablish a connection whose very existence is in danger of disappearing.
In a prophetic admonishment from a fictional Gerald
O’Hara to his headstrong daughter,
“…Do you mean to tell me, Katie Scarlett O’Hara, that Tara,
that land doesn’t mean anything to you? Why, land is the only
thing in the world worth workin’ for, worth fightin’ for, worth
dyin’ for, because it’s the only thing that lasts.”
Amen, and thank you, Miss Mitchell, for reminding us.
|
