Restoring an Antebellum Wonder.

I’ve heard a good deal about the restoration at Lakeport Plantation over time. Have you? Maybe not. I tend to seek out these sort of things, though, so I can share them with you.

I do recall the place being gifted to Arkansas State University back in 2001 by the Sam Epstein Angel family, and that there was a whole lot of work to be done. Turns out, years of work. I mentally made myself a note that someday I’d go see what the hubbub was about and determine for myself if it was as worthy as so many other of the magnificent homes I’ve visited these past few years.

I went on a Saturday morning with my photographer Grav Weldon to chronicle our visit. We did have to wait a bit -- the approach from US 82 is a paved country road, and farm crews were harvesting corn with machinery and loading said corn into bin wagons on the roadway. It wasn’t an especially long stop, though, and it didn’t take much searching to find the signs leading us to the plantation.

The snappy yellow house with its white trim, blue shutters and green ironwork can be seen peeking up over the fields of cotton around it. If you approach on a clear day you can also see the new US 82 bridge rising at angles in the deeper blue sky to the north. The scene is something very old and something very new, 150 years of separation between them.

Across the small parking lot from the plantation house lies a manufactured building, inside which are housed the staff and many of the items explaining the restoration. We met with two ladies, Sarah and Claudine, who were the only people we saw on staff there that day. They both immediately started giving us information about the house and its history, obviously very passionate about the story they have to share. I like that.

We learned a lot of things about the house. While it originates from 1859, the land it’s on has operated as a plantation since the 1831. It’s passed through a few hands but not all that many, starting with the Johnson family. The patriarch, Joel, left behind a wife and five children in Kentucky to forge his own path in the wilds of Arkansas. When he died in 1846, his son Lycurgus became the estate’s administrator, but it took more than ten years to settle everything out. In the end, the property went to Lycurgus and his wife Lydia and it’s believed that’s when Lakeport Plantation saw its first construction.

The plantation went to Lydia when Lycurgus died in 1876, and was administered under her son Theodore and son-in-law Isaac Washington until just before 1900, when it fell to the youngest surviving son, Victor Johnson. Doctor Johnson kept the plantation working and moving for many years until he uprooted the family and moved to Greenville, MS in 1927. At that point, the property went to the Epsteins, who held onto it until its donation.

There’s a whole lot of history there, and it’s so much better shared by Tom DeBlack from Arkansas Tech University (my alma mater), who probably knows more about that plantation than I know about food. I will defer to his greater knowledge, which is so kindly shared both on the Lakeport Plantation website and in the Encyclopedia of Arkansas, a resource with much merit that I encourage you to plunder for its repository of grand information.

But I digress.

Sarah took diligent time in making sure we knew about the efforts to restore Lakeport Plantation to its original grandeur. Unlike so many of the other restored Antebellum and Civil War-era homes I have seen over time, this facility is not packed with reproductions and “what ifs” and items unbefitting a museum-quality structure. She shared with us the painstaking diligence that went into each section of the restoration -- which explains why it took more than five years before the facility was opened to the public. It’s not done yet, by the way. There are so many little projects to complete in the home itself, and a series of buildings that will be constructed for classroom purposes as well.

Anyway… we saw many things, including actual nails from the site, a cross-section of roofing shingles and copper gutters that adorn the house, a replica cast iron piece that was mocked-up to go on the house but which weren’t needed because original era cast iron was discovered. I took particular interest in the 14-color process canvas floor coverings being restored by Becky Witsell. They’re currently housed separately. It’s amazing to see just how vibrant they are today. The floor cloths have taken generations of foot traffic yet somehow Witsell’s been able to bring them back and make them ever more vibrant than they already were.

Sarah also pointed out the magnificent ceiling medallions. At the welcome center there are photos of one of the medallions showing its previous condition, painted a funky gold. On entering the plantation house itself, it was one of the first things I noticed, perfectly restored above us.

The house itself is something to see. The front pathway has been restored with hand-cast bricks, but along the sides you can still see the original brickwork, worn but still marking the way. Up the somewhat steep steps to the porch, and the giant door looms. It’s a painted door, by the way, as are the many mantles inside the house, painted with that particular artistry common then (and now, it seems, looking at DIY programs) of faux finishes resembling wood on the doors and marble on some of the mantlepieces.

The front hall itself surprised me. Having been in many older homes like this, I was expecting a greeting stairwell in a hallway that would open up to rooms on either side. The hall at Lakeport Plantation is wide, as if to invite one in to sit inside. Parlors open up to each side, each with its own fireplace and windows looking out onto the cotton fields. There’s very little in these rooms or the hall; the folks who restored the plantation made what I considered to be a very wise decision, to restore back the plantation to its original era and not to clutter it with anything that wouldn’t have been found in 1859.

One thing that is in the house is an antique and unusual square grand piano in its music room. Built in 1869 by the J. A. Gray Company, it spent 60 years housed in the old Epstein Cotton Gin before being dug out and sent to Bradshaw Piano Service in Conway for restoration. In fact, the piano hasn’t been back long; it was returned to the home June 14th of this year. Though it was pretty much forgotten all those years, the keys survived intact -- in fact, just one of the wooden keys needed a new ivory veneer.

We explored the first floor rooms, including a men’s room that was likely a family parlor for less social settings. Past the rooms connected to the front of the hallway, the doors are shorter and have windows overhead that ratchet out for air flow even when the windows are closed.

We ventured upstairs. Here the rooms weren’t painted. The trim is pink in two of the bedrooms including the master. There’s a small nursery from which you can see a small crypt out the window to the gardens. The crypt itself was restored a few years back as part of the project.

The master bedroom was one of the few rooms that actually contained furniture -- a small vanity with towel rack, a fold out desk/dresser and a magnificent four poster bed that actually had springs in it instead of the rope suspension often seen in its era. I really liked that it wasn’t covered with mattress and linens; I could see the bones of the room, of the house, and could really feel what it was all about.

There’s even one room upstairs that’s still down to its original plaster, imagine that. The creases and such from the plastering process 150 years ago is still there and visible to this day.

We went back downstairs and checked out a few more rooms, including the old store. In this shelf-lined room you can read pencil-scrawled inscriptions that tell you where each item was kept and oftentimes how much it cost. There are a selection of bottles contemporary to the property on display, but for the most part it is bare. There’s one section where rice was kept where you can see what inflation does, with penciled-in prices starting at a nickel and working up from there.

The next room back was the coldest -- the former kitchen, a rarity being attached to the main house as it were. There’s still an old weathered butcher block in the center of the room, and an old pre-manufactured iron stove that’s… well, you just need to go there to get the story. I found it neat and impressive.

Out the back where the kitchen wing lies is a gigantic cistern. Years ago this was used for storing rainwater captured in gutters and piped down from the top of the house. It was very large and very deep. It’s not in use now, though, been filled in with sand. Back in the day this would have been the primary water source (far less contaminated with debris and the like than water from the Big Muddy nearby).

We went through the kitchen and out the back to a small porch. There’s an old dairy that is next on the “let’s explore and discover!” list that is still mostly untouched, and to the right of it what’s called The Smokehouse. That’s a magnificent idea. On the place where the original smokehouse stood another building has been erected, but instead of wood and meat there’s electrical and cooling equipment inside. This, to me, is genius. Rather than cut holes in the house and put in a modern (and obtrusive) climate control system, the system was constructed outside in this building and lines were run underground into the house. The vents run up into the attic and down the many fireplaces into each room, keeping the whole house appropriately chilled or heated and cutting the humidity. Genius!

We entered another room off the back porch. This room is believed to have been Dr. Victor Johnson’s office. It’s sparse but decorated with a bench found in the dairy recently. The plasterwork has been repaired and painted throughout except for one small section intentionally left original under the window. It is without a doubt the coldest room in the house.

The tour of the house all but complete, Sarah took us out to look at the exterior. Grav was taking photos of the ironwork on the porches when she mentioned to me about the bees. Yes, bees. This immediately put Grav on defense -- he hates bees -- but my curiosity was piqued.

Sarah showed us the tree where the bees had been making their home for generations (human generations, at that), a bowed out old cedar to the northeast of the house. There they were, hundreds of bees quietly humming in the afternoon heat. They didn’t bother us and we didn’t bother them.

We knew it was time to go, and were kind of surprised when we found we’d been at the plantation for nearly four hours. Besides, Grav and I had been given an idea whilst we were there, and we wanted to go check it out.

After making our salutations, we headed back over the Greenville bridge and connected in with Highway 1, headed for Old Washington. Sarah had sketched us out a rough map of where we were supposed to go, but I believe we accidentally left it behind because I could not for the life of me find it in my bag.

We’d progressed quite a place, egging each other on to go a little further, the whole “we’ve come this far, why stop now?” argument slowly losing traction. We knew we were in Washington County but there was no indication that we were anywhere near where we needed to be. Finally, our frustration convinced us to pull into a small RV park with a sign advertising “Bait and Thangs.” We weren’t sure what “thangs” were going to be in there (but later found out “thangs” are beverages and Little Debbie snack cakes) but it was a place to turn around.

There was just something, though -- the cypress, maybe, an old bridge… we pulled on through and turned left and drove along the river. And there, not a quarter mile past the RV park, was an old quiet red brick lady staring out cock-eyed over Lake Washington, an old ox-bow off the Mississippi. She’d seen a lot of wear. This, my friends, was Mount Holly Plantation.

We know some about her -- that she was built around 1855, contemporary to Lakeport Plantation, and that she was probably built for Margaret Johnson Erwin, who was Lycurgus Johnson's first cousin. We know that a gentleman bought the property years ago with plans to turn it into a B&B. But what we saw was sad and shocking. Though the exterior brick was mostly fine, many of the windows are missing, the structure is corroded and covered with webs and flora, and it stinks. I mean, it really stinks. We walked by some places where the windows were broken (and one where a door was standing wide open) and could smell the filth. Our guess -- teenagers who’d found some place interesting to hang. A shame.

Grav and I want to find out more about Mount Holly. I think everyone really does. The floor plan seems similar to Lakeport Plantation and out back towards Highway 1 there’s a grand alley of old oaks still standing. It’d be nice to see this plantation taken on as a project like Lakeport and hopefully restored to its beauty.

You can find Lakeport Plantation south of Highway 82. Turn south when you see the sign for The Cowpen and take State Highway 142 two miles south. You’ll see the sign that points to the gravel road on the left; more likely, you’ll see the yellow house from the road and follow your common sense. Check out the website. There are tours Monday through Friday at 10 a.m. and 2 p.m., and also Saturdays through the first week of September. Admission is five dollars. It’s a deal. (870) 265-6031.

More interesting Lake Village area stops:
Breakfast: JJ’s Lakeside Café. If you like a good veggie omelet, give the Bean Boy Omelet a try. Watch out for the jalapenos -- they’re almost as hot as the boiling-hot coffee.
Lunch: Rhoda’s Famous Hot Tamales. Get three, six, or twelve -- heck, take a coffee can full home with you for later. Smooth, meaty, slightly spicy tamales made from beef and chicken and a lot of chicken fat. Won’t do any favors for your waist, but you’re not in Lake Village to diet.
Dinner: The Cowpen. The steaks are highly touted, but we found the best deal on the menu to be the Chip & Dip - large portions of Rotel cheese dip, grilled-onion flavored bean dip and cumin-laced salsa served up with freshly deep fried tortilla chips for just $6.95 and more than you could make a meal on.

And of course, check out the new US 82 Highway Bridge.

* Watch Kat's segment about this article from her August 12th appearance on KARK Today at Noon by following this link. *

Rohwer in the soybeans.

I have to admit it, I’m a Star Trek fan. Yeah, mea culpa. I came to Star Trek late in life, at the age of 13 thanks to my friend Kriste Parsons. It just wasn’t watched in my family. It is now.

My first Star Trek exposure was actually the fourth movie, and my first episode was "I, Mudd." Over the years I filled in the gaps and caught up with the other Star Trek serials. And I read a lot, not just fiction based on the series but the biographies and autobiographies of the actors. Yes, even Shatner’s.

The one I really took to heart was that of George Takei. I always found him somewhat attractive and a rather friendly character. I even got to meet him when he came to Little Rock for a convention back in 1990. Yeah, I was a geek, and I’m dating myself severely. Well, at least there are no photos.

His life story’s not what you’d get with the average actor, and he’s been acting a lot longer than you might think (if you’re not a fan). He was born in 1937 and was living an average boy’s life in Los Angeles when World War II started. Takei, his parents and younger brother and sister were relocated in 1942 to the Rohwer Relocation Center in southeast Arkansas, like many other Americans of Japanese decent who lived on the West Coast. They spent eight months there before being transferred to the maximum security camp at Tule Lake, California. The Encyclopedia of Arkansas covers quite a lot about Takei and his time there -- I highly encourage you to read more about it.

Before reading Takei’s book, I had no idea there were relocation camps in Arkansas. I’d been through our public schools here and even through college before I learned this poignant fact. To me, it’s a big deal, and not just because an actor I like was on Arkansas soil. It was as if the relocation camps (Rohwer and a similar unit at Jerome) had been intentionally left out of history.

Back in 2004, I was working at Today’s THV when we did a story on Takei’s return for a special event, “Life Interrupted: The Japanese American Experience in World War II Arkansas.” I didn’t get to see him then, but it renewed my interest in finding out more about the camp. Unfortunately, I didn’t do a whole hell of a lot about it. That is, until one hot August Friday, when I rolled down that way with photographer Grav Weldon to see what it was all about.

I had been disappointed by the lack of information on the Internet. Some reports claimed that it was still a camp and that some of the buildings were still in use. Others… well, honestly, there just wasn’t that much out there. I did eventually find directions to the place, and after a stop in Dumas for breakfast and a misguided trip into a cotton field to find Old Napoleon, we arrived.

There’s just a sign on the highway, a brown sign that says the national monument is this way. It’s a gravel road, and you go over railroad tracks and suddenly you’re in a soybean field. There’s no other notice of where you’re at or what you’re doing. The first thought I had was “um, did we take the right road?”

But there in front of us across the field was a stand of trees, tall hardwoods amongst the soybeans. Curiosity had pulled me out of my bed early that morning; it had pulled me into the depths of southeast Arkansas and onto this gravel road, and on the off chance that we were in the right place, we proceeded.

And found a graveyard. Honestly, there were no buildings in sight, just a tree-ringed lawn and a series of stone monuments. We drove around to the right and to the back, looking for something else, anything that might indicate the structures that had once stood. After sliding around in the mud near the back corner of the long yard, we decided “this must be it” and turned back.

There’s no place marked for parking, so we parked parallel with the road and got out. Tall oaks and sinewy crepe myrtle trees lined a lawn that stretched perhaps 50 yards back to a series of monuments and headstones. Yard-tall stone markers outlined the plot. The lawn had to have recently been mowed; it was a little unkempt but still short.

The first stone we reached on our approach was a stone obelisk that bore the National Historic Landmark bronze plaque, noting that the site had been designated in 1992. The bronze had faded, but the stone was as pristine as its first placement.



Past that was another relatively new marker marked CASSINO-ANZIO. This was a military campaign during the second World War. Along its sides are the names of the Japanese-American men interred at Rohwer who applied for military service and who served and died with the U.S. Fifth Army 100 Battalion, 442 Regiment. That’s right. Though our government took these men from their homes and sent them to the hottest, flattest part of Arkansas, they showed their dedication for our country and volunteered for service to fight in a war against several other countries, including their homeland. Cassino-Anzio was a campaign in March 1944, a march to Rome to oust the Germans.

On the back of the monument, the first paragraph of the Japanese-American Creed given by Mike Masaoka in front of the U.S. Senate on May 9, 1941.

I am proud that I am an American citizen of Japanese ancestry, for my very background makes me appreciate more fully the wonderful advantages of this Nation. I believe in her institutions, ideals, and traditions; I glory in her heritage; I boast of her history; I trust in her future. She has granted me liberties and opportunities such as no individual enjoys in this world today. She has given me an education befitting kings. she has entrusted me with the responsibilities of the franchise. She has permitted me to build a home, to earn a livelihood, to worship, think, speak, and act as I please -- as a free man.

Below this inscription, an accounting of what had happened, etched for all time in words that may only be read by those who traipse across that soybean field. Or here.

There was a reflecting pool behind that marker, a badly maintained pool or perhaps just an area that had been blocked out and which had catched the rainwater.






To the left was a monument in the shape of a tank, apparently contemporary to close to the end of the war also commemorating the lives of the Japanese-American soldiers who died in World War II. The statue still stands, but there is damage at the point where the tablet of names meets the tank bottom. The portion containing the “treads” include renditions of gears in the form of lotus flowers. Above, a single five point star.

To the right stands a similarly sized monument, another obelisk, this one topped with a bird on a sphere. Japanese writing graces some of its faces. On the north side is an inscription, “May the people of Arkansas keep in beauty and reverence forever this ground where our bodies sleep.” The once intricately tooled monument has lost much detail with the weathering of time, and it's started to sink sideways in the pool, but it still stands poignantly as a reminder -- this isn’t just a stretch of historic land; it’s a graveyard. Don’t disturb the souls here.

We carefully and quietly moved among the headstones, reading the names of those who perished here. Most were adults, but in the southwest corner we found the headstones for three infants who died in 1943 -- Masaka, Tasugi, Sano. Whether these were the personal or family names of the children, I don’t know, but to me it was poignant.

A line of crepe myrtle trees separated the graveyard from the back of the long yard. There was a faded road within and a few scattered stones, but nothing else. The buildings on this plot of land have been lost to time, either long ago ruined or moved elsewhere. On all sides, soybeans.

And that was it, nothing more to recall what had happened here those years, nothing more to honor those who passed this way. Just a graveyard in a soybean field. Part of me wonders why, but part of me knows the possible answer. There is some shame in what was done here. Our government rounded up its own citizens just because of their genealogy and planted them on Arkansas soil out of fear.

But that’s just me editorializing. What you really want to know is where to find that soybean field. It’s off Highway 1 (the Great River Road) near Tillar. You can find a map here. Take someone or tell them about this place.

Go tell Ms. Rhoda; she'll hook you up with tamales.

After our breakfast in Dumas, a trip down Highway 1 through Watson, a misguided attempt to find Old Napoleon and a stop at Rohwer Relocation Camp we ended up on the doorstep of Rhoda Adams, as in the particularly local establishment in Lake Village known as Rhoda’s Famous Hot Tamales. She and her husband James run this place on St. Mary’s Street, and you can smell it a block away, the smell of spices and fried things luring you off Highway 65 if you let it. If you don’t roll down your windows and never leave the highway, you may never find it.

On Watermelons, Festivals and Growing Up Arkansawyer.

Tis the season… no, not Christmas season, but the season I look forward to each and every year. That’s right, it’s watermelon season.

Been following the trail up through Bald Knob and Batesville these past several years to head to Cave City, home of the world’s sweetest watermelons. We leave home first thing in the morning and make the two hour drive up there, me and Hunter, just to spend the day in the middle of the city park, relaxing to gospel and folk music and enjoying the 4pm free watermelon feast. It’s a nice, small festival, one I’ve fallen in love with, and we will eventually be back.

But my job is to cover all of Arkansas, and I’ve neglected the other famed watermelon festival, the big boy of the South (Arkansas, that is). I haven’t been to the Hope Watermelon Festival in years.

Hope melons are different from Cave City melons. They tend to be more watery and less sweet, but what they lack in intensity they make up for in sheer size. I often see trailer loads of Hope melons alongside busy thoroughfares, the trailers usually packed with longer, pale green melons with dark stripes. Some folks swear by a Hope melon, and I should too, considering where I come from and what I do.

Thing is, I could purchase either sort of melon any day of the week from a variety of places. It might require a small drive but certainly wouldn’t require me to get out my tennis shoes and sunscreen. So why do I go?

There’s something about an Arkansas festival. It’s not the concessionary vendors or the promotions, though sometimes either or both could be fun. It’s something about hearing people speak in the native tongue, how they share a bit of their lives at these things. I go to experience these things. I take Hunter because she needs her own exposure.

Growing up in the city is an experience all its own. I had my opportunity; I’m a full on strong hearted Little Rock woman and will always feel this is my hometown. But I also recall the time spent around my roots in southwest Arkansas and on trips into the Ozarks. I learned more about our state from the back of a car and every roadside stop as a kid than I did throughout my 20s. Some things stick with you.

I want Hunter to know what it’s like to swap recipes and stories with aging women at a bake sale. To run with other kids and play carnival games and such. I want to teach her how to do an appropriate tick check, how to properly pet a kid goat, all those sorts of things. I want her to develop a taste for the foods that are native to us, blackberries and peaches and Mayhaws and muscadines. And of course, watermelon.

So we’re going. I’ve already started planning what I’m going to pack for us to take -- sunscreen, bug spray, Thermos of water, cooler with sandwiches, all that. We’ll watch the lawnmower races and the watermelon eating contest, the arm wrestling competition and the seed spitting contest. She may be too young to teach how to properly spit seeds, but I will buy a slice of cold watermelon and share it with her. And somewhere I’m going to find a big melon and take her photo with it.

Hunter’s just 20 months old. She may not remember every detail of what we do, but I’m hoping she’ll be able to look back when she’s my age and remember that her mother was never afraid to drive her a couple hours out from home just to eat a piece of watermelon.

The magnificent fire.

Most of the time, when I share tales with you about food, it’s about of my own adventure. I do a lot of solo traveling, that’s just the way it is. But when the experience is shared… it can make for some really great stories.

My traveling companion this trip was photographer Grav Weldon. We were in Fort Smith working on a couple of different articles and were looking for a certain breakfast place mentioned to me by Eat Arkansas fans. That place is Lewis’ Family Restaurant.

I have no idea about the placement of that apostrophe, honestly enough. The lowslung little brown building sits at the corner of Zero and Highway 71 in the southern part of the city, at a rather busy intersection across from the local Wal-Mart. We dropped by late one Friday morning for breakfast. Well, at least, I was planning to have breakfast. See, Grav had been hearing about this place and he’d actually been -- and he’d seen this thing on the menu. I’ll get back to that in a moment.

Lewis’ used to be a cafeteria located over by Creekmore Park. It relocated a while back to its current location -- which, way back in the day was a 24 hour truck stop. Lewis’ is not 24-hour. That’s an important distinction to make, considering that’s what we were told and why we’d actually first met there on Thursday. Anyway….

On entering the building, we saw the day’s special on a rather obnoxious looking sandwich board. I was actually kinda interested in the breakfast special, peering out under signs that stated “You have two choices -- take it or leave it!“ and a labeled mousetrap that said “Complaint Department, Press Button for Service.“ My interest was piqued with something that ooked seriously dangerous: The I-540 Pile-Up -- corned beef hash topped with two eggs, Cheddar cheese and gravy served with toast or a biscuit. Piqued, but not startled into actually ordering the thing.

We found a booth along the east wall, under a specials board. Our waitress came over and dropped off menus and took our drink orders. The menu’s of decent size. It didn’t take me long to figure out I really wanted a pecan waffle, and I got mine “combo’d up” with a couple of over-medium eggs and a couple of rounds of turkey sausage.

Grav knew what he wanted from the start, though he did cursorily flip through the menu. He was in it for this burger. It was listed on an insert page in the menu: INFERNO BURGER: 1/3 lb. seasoned burger topped with spicy bacon, Pepper Jack cheese, jalapenos and onions. All this on a hamburger bun smothered in Lewis' own HOT chipotle mayo. This burger is not for wimps! $6.99 with (1) side.

He ordered his with Cajun fries. I guess that made a lot of sense.

It was loud inside. People were crowded into ad-covered tables and booths along the walls. Right next to our booth was a series of tables that had been pushed together. Guys were gathering along its length -- all guys, in fact. Our waitress breezed by.

“I got your order in just in time,” she told us.

“Everything okay?” I asked.

“Oh, it’s the Inferno club guys. There’s a lot of them and it’s going to take a while to get their orders out. Yours should be ready in no time.”

I looked at Grav, and we both looked over at the table. The guys that were filing in were greeting each other affectionately. They came from all walks of life -- gentlemen in golf shirts, a guy in fatigues, some in t-shirts and a couple of boys, too. You could hear their greetings over the loud and persistent hum of conversation throughout the place. Our waitress swung back by to refill our drinks.

“Excuse me, ma’am, did you say a club?” Grav asked.

“It’s a club for people who have finished the Inferno Burger. We were just offering it for a short time, but they keep coming back and we keep leaving it on the menu.”

“You have to finish the burger?” I asked.

“If you finish it, you can sit at their table. They have a Facebook page.”

Now, there was a story. I raised my eyebrows at Grav. “You may not know what you’re in for.”

“I can take it,” he confidently told me. He told me about an experience at an Indian restaurant in London, where he’d managed to eat the hottest thing they brought out of the kitchen. I smiled. This was going to make a good story.

It was loud in the restaurant, and warm, too. With the temperature pushing 100 already and all the people coming through the door, it was no wonder.

I heard a younger man over at the Inferno Club table talking about why he was there to eat the burger. He told the guys he was getting married soon, and that he needed to eat the burger to prove himself. There was some chortling among other guys at the table.

“You know, I’d give it a shot, just for the hell of it, if I wasn’t having this waffle this morning,” I told Grav.

“You know it has bacon on it.”

“Does it? Well, damn.”

I looked up and saw our waitress making her way between the tables with our order. She plunked down my waffle and a separate plate with eggs and turkey sausage, then spun around the plate with the famed burger on it right in front of Grav.

“You sure about this, hon? Need any ketchup?”

“I’ll take barbecue sauce if you have it,” he told her, picking up his camera. She looked at us a little funny, but that wasn’t going to stop us. We both started to shoot the food. Hey, it’s what we do.

The waffle was hot and it smelled nutty and sweet and I really just wanted to put down the camera and eat it. I did. But there’s this whole sense of purpose I get when I get that camera up.

However, just seconds after I had taken a whiff of the waffle my eyes watered a little bit.

“Is that the burger?”

“I think so.”

“Wow. Do you want to shoot the waffle?”

“Yes… yes, I do.” We traded plates. I noticed how the bun was hunched over the contents of the burger, so I just barely brushed it back before I started to shoot. The scent of strong peppers and onions was close to overwhelming. But it looked like a really great thing to eat. I looked back at my waffle and sighed a little. I had to get that waffle. It was part of my own assignment.

We traded back plates and I shot some of the eggs. I was startled by Grav’s sudden exclamation.

“Good Lord!”

“You haven’t eaten it yet,” I said.

“I just took a bite.” He took a big gulp of his Mountain Dew. “It’s really hard to handle.” I turned my camera back on and pointed it his way. He tackled the burger with fork and knife. “Look at this bacon. This is nothing but spice.”

“Hotter than you thought?”

“Maybe.”

I started to cut a little piece of my waffle, but before I could get it to my lips I saw him fork up a chunk of burger. I put down my fork and took a shot of him. Then I watched as he ate it.

“Wow. Holy sh*t.” He had suddenly beaded up with sweat, and his pallor had changed from light pink to a deepening red. He was chuckling a little bit. I watched as he took off his glasses and wiped his face with a napkin.

My waffle was all but forgotten. I was just astounded by what I was seeing before me, this transformation of willpower into pain, and I had to capture each moment of it. I started scribbling his utterances in my notebook. This was going to be good.

He cut another bite. “Aw! One of the hottest things I’ve ever eaten,” he told me. He stopped, looked at me, and asked me “what have I done to myself?”

I looked over at the guys at the other table. No one had an Inferno Burger yet. I looked back and just grinned. He continued his monologue as I scribbled. “I like hot food, but that being said, I can feel it coming out of my sinuses.” He picked up and ate a Cajun spiced fry with no visual change. Then back to the burger. I noticed he was taking smaller and smaller bites.

“So, what’s in it?”

“The stuff they call mayo is the source of the heat. There’s spice in the meat, too.” He coughed hard. “Ooh, spice up the nose, wild.”

“The cheese?”

“There’s cheese? Oh, yeah, there is.” He wiped his face again with the napkin, dabbing around his eyes. Sweat had rolled down his chest and he was squinting a bit. He called the waitress. “Ma’am, I could use a cup of milk.”

“Do you want us to add it to the check?” she asked me. I waved my hand and nodded.

“Whole milk if you got it!” he hollered as best as he could, trying not to choke up.

She came back a fraction of a minute later. “We only have two percent.”

“Yes! I need it!”

His plummet into deeper shades of red hadn’t stopped when he stopped taking in bites of burger. In fact, the heat had stirred up a fountain within his skin, dampening his shirt one degree after another, as if to attempt to save him from the inferno by drowning him.

“This is on par with ‘we can make it hotter.’ This is insane hot.”

Our waitress brought the milk, and Grav took it and took a long drink. He leaned over for a moment, trying for a little air I think. I took the opportunity to put down my camera and try my breakfast.

It wasn’t cold, which means it was pretty hot when I got it. The eggs were perfectly cooked, but I was disappointed with the turkey sausage. It didn’t have a whole lot of flavor to it, more like ground turkey instead of sausage. I ended up leaving most of it.
The waffle, on the other hand, was excellent, a big Belgian with pecans throughout. Light yet golden and crispy and a sponge for butter and syrup.

“I’m usually not a milk drinker,” Grav gasped, finally able to speak. “It just keeps building and building.” He fiddled with his fork but didn’t progress on to the next bite.

I got a little syrup on my fingers and did the unconscious thing, which was to lick it off. Suddenly my lips were on fire. “The heck?”

“You all right?”

“I think I must have touched your burger. Wow. That’s some spice.” I wiped my hands against the napkin and made a note that I needed to go wash as soon as I was done eating.

The guys at the next table were getting their food. I could hear some general fun being poked at one of the guys who’d ordered a big salad instead of the burger. He good-naturedly took the chiding.

Grav put down his napkin. “I’m done. I swear, I taste ghost chilies in there.”

“Are you sure? You haven’t even made it halfway through.”

“I could eat the whole thing if I tried, but I have a shoot today and I don’t want to miss it. I could take some Pepsid and make it work…”

I was enjoying the waffle, and watching the entertainment in front of me. I really did feel for Grav as far as the heat was concerned, but he had put himself through it.

“I’m feeling a mild to moderate amount of miserable,” he continued, taking another drink from his large tumbler of milk. “I want to take another bite… it tastes good, but it’s so hot not just in my mouth but my lips and the inside of my nose.”

He asked for a box, and took just the burger with him, having not made much of a dent in the fries. I got up and settled our check.

When I got home, I checked Facebook for the page I’d heard about. It’s a private page, and when I requested membership I got a message from Brad Lewis asking if I’d actually eaten the burger. I explained the situation, and he sent me this reply:

“We were wondering who that was taking pictures of us! The Inferno Club started when I was telling one guy at my church about the burger. Another guy overheard, then another. So we decided to meet at Lewis' to eat it. We enjoyed the food and the fellowship so much we decided to make it a monthly get-together and invite anyone to down the burger. They've made a special "Inferno" menu for us now. A person has to eat the entire burger to join the club, but doesn't have to eat it every time we meet. I've eaten seven of them and two members have eaten the Towering Inferno (double all) and have decided to retire from Inferno anything.”

Grav and I both posted photos on our Facebook pages after his ordeal, and we got a lot of comments. In fact, there are several of our friends who are being very macho about it, who want to try it and see if they can manage it. One’s my husband, Paul, who eats things that would make goats cry. We’re thinking we’ll get a whole crew to hit the road one day and head up to Lewis’ and see who can take the whole burger. I know I’m going to laugh. I also know I’m probably going to try the homemade meatloaf and the fried corn on the cob. I am going nowhere near that burger -- except to capture my friends’ agony as they attempt to eat it.

Lewis’ Family Restaurant is open every day from six in the morning until three in the afternoon. You can get breakfast any time. I bet if you asked nice you could probably get that Inferno Burger whenever you wanted it, too, but that’d be just masochistic. If you get lost, call them and ask where they’re at. (479) 646-4309.

Karma, humility and bragging rights.

I do a lot of talking about places and things and edibles here at Tie Dye Travels; I rarely talk about what goes on behind the scenes.

It's been a busy few weeks. It's summertime, which is Arkansas festival season. I've found myself at numerous festivals this year. I'm also working on a future story for one of my publications that's going to be pretty extensive (don't worry about it, I'll let you in on the secret soon) and several other stories elsewhere. As it is, I'm awfully blessed right now with work. I'm thankful for that.

I just appeared last week on KARK Today at Noon, talking with Mallory Hardin about this blog and where it's lead me. Late that afternoon, I discovered this blog had been named a runner-up for Best Blog in the 2010 Arkansas Times Best of Arkansas Readers Choice Poll, along with Jason Tolbert's The Tolbert Report and Blake Rutherford's Blake's Think Tank. The Times' own Arkansas Blog took top honors -- and rightfully so. No way I could ever compete with the mother of all Arkansas blogs.

In July Little Rock Family Magazine named Tie Dye Travels one of "13 Central Arkansas Blogs You Should Be Reading." That was pretty cool, too. The day we got together and took that photo for the article was dang hot.

Crazier things have happened. The other day I won the celebrity grape stomp at the Altus Grape Festival. That was weird and unexpected. Five minutes before the event, I was sitting in Kelt's drinking iced tea. Heck, you can read about the experience at Eat Arkansas - another great opportunity in my life that I am thankful for.

I'm collaborating, after all this time. You get into a pattern when you're on your own, a hermit-like mindset. It's great for focus, sure. But when you have a dinky little Nikon P50 to shoot with, it's hard to catch things very well. I appreciate how you, dear readers, have put up with some of my efforts -- especially in the early years with bad flash, focus, all sorts of stuff. I've learned as I've gone along. Now I find myself having the benefit of talented photographers like Grav Weldon and Leif Hassell who have frequently come along for the ride as of late. Props are definitely in order.

I find that my ducks are all finally settling into their row. It's been nearly three years now since I left Today's THV and started on this mad crazy adventure. There have been many times I've wondered if I would survive at this, quite a few times when I wondered if it was time to throw in the towel and head back to the world of television.

I'm past that now. These past few months I've discovered all sorts of avenues to travel. I'm blessed with thoughtful editors who occasionally seek me out for their bidding and who are receptive to my ideas. I'm overjoyed with the stories I've been able to discover, research and share. It's a good time in my life, and I'm just glad it all worked out.

People ask me how I got into this... and I used to give them a whole schpiel about how I left TV and didn't know where I was going to go or what I was going to do. Now? I say it's karma. Now, karma's a funny thing. I don't believe the idea is a religious one. It's just the idea that if you put good out there into the universe, eventually you'll get some back. I've always tried to be kind to the people around me, even when I haven't felt like being kind. I figured if I worked hard and did the best job I could, eventually things would turn out for me.

And they have. Yay me. And yay you for putting up with my ramblings.

Does my good fortune mean I'll get a big head about things? Nah. Yeah, there have been some accolades of late and I'm thrilled about them. But there's so much work to be done, and so little time to get it all done in. I plan to keep my perspective.

If there's anything I can share with you today, it's the importance of realizing what good is in your life. I have this great career now, a home, a means to keep on going and this beautiful, smart daughter who marks 20 months today. There are good things in your life, too. Enjoy.

Oh, and thank you for voting for Tie Dye Travels. That means a whole lot to me.

Hidden Pie at the Jenny Lind Country Cafe.

After a few weeks working with the experienced Arkansas food pro, photographer Grav Weldon shares a hidden secret. And there's pie. Oh heavens is there pie.