A confederacy of old men gathers outside a small, silent gristmill. They started work at this mill as young men, just boys really. They milled wheat and corn for families across the county. Over time, the work trickled away and they conceded that a business must offer a service people need, not one they only remember. Now they sometimes start up their mill because as young men they were millers and mechanics. When they step inside, they return to that time again.

Old French men have croissants and cafés. Old Italian men have ciabatta and bocce. These old men of Watauga County have cornbread and a mill.

The mill sits in a meadow on the bank of Grassy Creek in Watauga County, high in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina. The creek burbles and bounces against the stone foundation of the mill house. The water ripples like the ruffled hem of a skirt. The stones came from the creek itself, the dark plank walls from the surrounding woods. Despite its age, the mill is stately and solid. It stands firm against the backdrop of indigo hills and golden fields.

The men rouse the machinery. The mill sputters and stutters until they coax it into fluency. They've come together to grind some meal, just enough to take some home, put a few sacks out for the occasional tourist, and enough to make cornbread tonight.

The stones waltz the corn into meal. The air above the hopper begins to fuzz with dust dancing in the sunbeams coming through the windows. Over the years, broken panes have been replaced, so the windows display a timeline of glass. The original panes are thick and creamy, some are thin and flinty, the newest are lightly tinted blue. These subtle stained-glass windows speckle light throughout the mill.

The mill smells musty, like the inside of a drawer in a grandmother's sideboard that's opened only when someone needs the good napkins. The machinery smells like silver that's just been polished, clean and metallic. The scents aren't pungent; they're soft and cumulative, as though the mill has been wearing the same perfume for a long time.

While two men tend to the grinding, another begins to cook. The rest of the men settle in to talk about the weather, politics, and the like. Most members of this confab stand sturdy with their hands in their pockets. A knot of older gentlemen sit with arms crossed loosely. They cock their heads to hear a bit better and nod in agreement with the truer tales. The men throw their heads back in laughter. At times they sit quietly and watch the mill at work. They gaze with the awe and wonderment of curators in the museum, hikers in the wilderness, believers in the chapel.

The cook takes a cast-iron skillet down from a nail. He cooks on the woodstove. He knows how to control the heat with the types of wood he uses. Locust for intense heat, oak for gentler heat, and cherry for the pleasure of its smell. If the oven gets too hot, he can nudge the temperature down by propping its door open with little wedges of wood of varying thickness, little doorstops between hot and cool.

When the oven is hot, the cook puts a generous knob of bacon grease in the skillet and sticks it in the oven to heat while he makes the batter. He contends that a cup of clean, white bacon grease sitting by the stove is the hallmark of any good cook.

He unties the string from around the neck of a meal sack and sifts the right amount through his fingers into a bowl. He stirs in a little leavening, eggs, and enough buttermilk to make it all moist. When the skillet is smoking hot, he pours in the batter. It hits the shimmering grease with a fierce sizzle, and a sharp smell of raw cornmeal leaps up.

Cornbread loves a seasoned cast-iron skillet. When asked about his skillet, the cook tells that it was his mama's and that he's mighty proud to have it. He offers a little advice: Take good care of a skillet that's seasoned right. Don't ever wash it; just wipe it with a clean cloth. Most of all, he always says, no matter how old you are, make sure your skillet is older.

If he hears that you don't have a seasoned skillet, he sighs and looks at you as if to say, "Sorry about your lack of inheritance, but if you start now, at least you'll have something to leave your children."

The cook knows the cornbread is done when it starts to smell like roasted corn. He turns out the crusty, steaming brown cake onto a plate and cuts it into generous wedges. The crust is thick and crunchy, the inside tender and fragrant. He splits the wedges and lavishes them with butter. Rivers of melting butter etch into the crumbs. The cook calls the men to the table. They sit and pass the plate from one to another.

About the Author:

Sheri Castle is a professional culinary instructor and writer known for melding storytelling, humor, and culinary expertise, so she can tell a tale while making a memorable meal. Sheri is also a freelance food writer, recipe developer, and recipe tester. In addition to her contributions to several award winning cookbooks, her work has appeared in Southern Living, Better Homes and Gardens, Cornbread Nation 3, Living in Style, and numerous newspapers. Sheri is a member of the International Association of Culinary Professionals, the Southern Foodways Alliance, Chef's Collaborative, Slow Foods USA and the Carolina Farm Stewardship Association. She lives in Chapel Hill, North Carolina, with her husband Doug Tidwell, daughter Lily Castle Tidwell, and Domino, the Hound of Renown.

You will need:

Blue food coloring
A cotton swab
A ring the size of a paper punch (use a plastic reinforcement ring for a three-hole binder or make your own ring by punching a hole in a piece of plastic or waxed paper)
A flashlight
A mirror
A magnifying glass (optional)

Put the ring on your tongue and swab the inside of the ring with the cotton swab dipped in blue food coloring. Using the flashlight, a mirror and the magnifying glass, look to see how many bumps/pinkish circles you have inside the ring. If you are a medium taster, there will only be a few (five). If you are a supertaster, there will be many, many more papillae (dozens).

In the Summer edition of Edible Phoenix, Greg Peterson offers tips on small scale, non-traditional composting for families with limited quantities of compostable material. If you are ready to tackle a larger composting project, here are his suggestions.

Now if you still want to take a stab at traditional composting, the first thing to know is that you need a critical mass of organic material in order for the compost process to begin. The minimum size for effective composting is a cube of material 3 x 3 x 3 feet. The organic material used needs to consist of approximately 25% green/nitrogen such as manure, kitchen scraps and green grass clippings and 75% dry/carbon such as dried leaves, hay and chicken yard litter. Next you need to build the pile by thoroughly mixing your items, making sure they are fluffed appropriately so the pile can breathe. Then add just enough water so that when you squeeze the wet material like a sponge a little water comes out. Add water once a week and watch the compost happen. A great item to use for building the compost holder is old pallets. Wire three of them together in a "U" shape and add a fourth on the front to hold it all in. This makes harvesting it easy when it is done, as all you have to do is unwire the pallets and use the compost.

The composting process works when bacteria eat the organic material in the pile. This causes heat (and boy does it get hot, up to 160 degrees). As the bacteria eat the compost, the pile shrinks, up to 50% in just a few weeks. After about six weeks the temperature drops dramatically and the pile needs to be turned and watered and the process starts again. Turn the pile one more time and let it sit for an additional six weeks and you will have wonderful compost.

Vincent's Camelback Market

The following article is by Kathy Couturié, a.k.a. the "roaming gourmet". Look for her suggestions on a perfect food day for out-of-town visitors in the inaugural issue of Edible Phoenix, available mid-February.

The Saturday morning market at Vincent's on Camelback reminded me of a high end block party - there were so many savory choices of marvelous things to eat that I had to momentarily pause and simply inhale all of the smells. This small, charming outdoor market features incredible foods, cooked on the spot before your very eyes. The day we visited, there were paninis, crepes, duck, chicken and vegetarian pizzas, meat and seafood paellas, and three kinds of tamales: beef mole, beef tomatillo, and duck.

In addition to the cooked foods, Vincent's sells homemade guacamole, salsas, La Brea breads, baked breakfast goodies such as scones, brioche and croissants, and last but certainly not least: four kinds of soufflés: chocolate, Grand Marnier, lemon and raspberry. There is a small produce stand, displaying organic arugula, mixed greens, baby cauliflower, radicchio, green beans, exquisite white asparagus, D'Anjou pears, heirloom tomatoes and Portobello mushrooms the size of my hand - which had a hard time minding it's own business and not grabbing at everything in sight.

Vincent Market Bistro is open throughout the morning, enabling one to enjoy a cappuccino with the morning's repast, as well as exceptional wines by the glass or bottle, and an impressive selection of imported cheeses. The Bistro regularly stocks gourmet olive oils, condiments, pates, herbs, and Vincent's homemade stocks and sauces. This is my idea of a petite heaven on earth - the Bistro enables one to accomplish fine grocery shopping while reveling in all of the sights and smells of the outdoor market.

In a separate row, there were a few independent vendors including Carolyn's Classics Arizona Gourmet Foods, Dromgold's Mustards, The Honey Man from Black Canyon City, and a charming gentleman selling paintings of roosters. Carolyn's Classics products included bread and butter pickles, salsas, corn relish, ratatouille, jams and jellies - including coffee jelly, wine jelly and margarita jelly. I loved Dromgold's mustard samples, especially the horseradish mustard and the habanero mustard. It would be heavenly with grilled sausages, but could and probably should be spread on just about everything you eat.

This market is a fine way to while away a Saturday morning in Phoenix - next visit I plan on going early for a crepe, shopping the market, then taking a brisk walk around the long block before returning for some of the meat paella containing chicken, pork, sausage and Spanish rice. What better way to start the day?

The Camelback Market at Vincent's is located at 3930 East Camelback Road and is open Saturday mornings in season from 9:00 a.m. to 1:00 p.m.; tel. (602) 224-0225 or visit www.vincentsoncamelback.com/market.shtml.