where to eat in atlanta | brunch at rosebud

Let's get the bad news out of the way: By Atlanta law, restaurants cannot serve alcohol until noon. That's an improvement over my years serving tables in Newnan, Georgia back when Coweta County was dry on Sundays. But it's a disappointment coming from DC, where brunch isn't complete if it isn't preceded by the words "bottomless mimosas." The food at Rosebud in the hip Highlands neighborhood of Atlanta far makes up for its champagne deficit.

I'm fortunate to have two friends from high school middle school that I still call my closest. Melanie is one, of course, and the other is Randall. I wrote about our mud hike and delicious lunch at Thai Square after his last visit to DC. I have a picture of Randall and me hanging in my room from a 7th grade science nighttime "trip" outside of school to look at the stars, or an eclipse, or something in the sky. We both have braces, and we're happy, typical 13-year-olds. I smile every time I catch a glance of us back then.

The three of us are rarely in the same city at the same time, so we took advantage of us all being in Atlanta a few weekends ago to catch up over brunch. Randall, the only one of us who lives in the city, suggested Rosebud and got us reservations. Rosebud serves a twist on a traditional southern-style brunch, complete with cheese grits and bread pudding french toast, and fried chicken so good I'd have just about eaten it off the floor.

We decided on sharing the bread pudding french toast as a "starter." Spoiler alert: we never finished it. We tried our hardest, though, and we did make a substantial dent in it. The portion sizes are generous, to say the least. It was, hands down, some of the best french toast I've ever had. In fact, I'll just say it - it was the best. The texture of the bread pudding made the dish creamier than it is traditionally, and the rich, warm real maple syrup had me sticking my fork back in for "just one more bite" more times than I needed. I loved the addition of the fried egg on top, the yolk adding another level of flavor that I've craved ever since leaving the poor remains on that table.

I'd like to be able to tell you about the various other brunch dishes Rosebud serves, but we all ordered the same thing. Great minds think alike, and all that. But honestly, when there's an option for fried chicken on homemade biscuits with sausage gravy and a fried egg to top it off, who sees anything else?

We would have done well to order two of these monsters instead of three. Melanie and I barely made it through half of ours (Randall didn't have a problem finishing his). It was so good Melanie and I took our leftovers to our hotel for Ashley's wedding and snacked on them while we got ready. We couldn't stop. It's no surprise that an Atlanta restaurant has mastered fried chicken, but it doesn't mean I appreciate it any less. This chicken was decadent - juicy on the inside, crispy on the outside, and the key - flavorful. It's so easy for fried chicken to come out bland or tasting like the oil in which it was fried. Rosebud's take on it is moist without being greasy and seasoned to perfection.

The dish is served with grits or potatoes, and as true Georgians, we all went for the grits. Randall and I opted for cheese on ours. I've ordered grits at every brunch I've been to in DC that offers them, and I've been disappointed every single time. I grew up on Mom-made, homemade grits. I know the real deal. It should be bursting with flavor - peppery and savory, the cheese adding a punch of saltiness. The grits at Rosebud reminded me that they can be done right.

We finished eating at 11:50. Don't worry, we saved room for a round... or two... of mimosas for dessert.

if you go... 

rosebud

1397 n. highland ave ne atlanta

price range: $10-$15/entree

$7 mimosas or a $27 for a carafe of oj & a bottle of bubbly

menu highlights: fried chicken, "big nasty" (fried chicken sandwich)

travel tuesday: newnan, ga | where i come from

"Where I come from,it's cornbread and chicken,

where I come from, a lot of front porch sittin' - 

workin' hard to make a livin',

where I come from." - Alan Jackson

It was no secret that I wanted out of Georgia as a kid and a teenager. It didn't matter how much debt I would incur, or what school I attended as long as it was far away from Newnan. I didn't know what, exactly, was in the big world out there that wasn't in Newnan, but I knew the answer was, "more." And I wanted more for myself. Like all of these stories of escaping small childhood towns go, I love it now, and I look forward to every visit back home. 

Newnan is situated in Coweta County, 30 miles southwest of Atlanta. When my mom, brother, and I moved there, I was 6 years old, and I could count the number of people who lived in our neighborhood on my fingers and toes. I played in the woods, because that's all our eastern corner of Newnan was at the time, and I rode bikes with my friends, and I'll never forget the day my friend Jenny's family got an in-ground pool in her backyard. Driving to the grocery store took 20 minutes because we had to cross town, and the closest thing to us was a single gas station at a big intersection 5 minutes up the road to town. 

What I missed out on living on the east side of town was downtown Newnan. Dubbed "the square," it's the hubbub of old Newnan. As my side of town built up to become a commercialized, suburban stronghold in the metro-Atlanta area, downtown Newnan remained (and still remains) much the same as it was many years ago. It's cleaner and shinier now, but it holds the history of our town in its streets and barber shops and small restaurants that'll serve you fried chicken the way it's supposed to be made. 

In elementary school I went on a class field trip to learn about the antebellum architecture in Newnan. I wish I remembered more of the history, but it's fun to re-learn it now and appreciate seeing it every time I'm in town. 

Newnan bears almost no battle wounds from the Civil War because it was used as a hospital town for Confederate soldiers. Back in those days, it was a wealthy area, and a skilled, renowned architect named Kennon Perry thought it a beautiful spot to build homes. Newnan is known as the "City of Homes" today because beautiful 20th-century homes dot tucked away lanes and roads in the older parts of the city. 

On my most recent visit a few weekends ago, I went for a run downtown, taking advantage of the time to wind my way through streets I felt like I'd somehow never seen, to admire the old homes. 

 

Newnan, as you might guess, was a slave town. As a teenager, I thought the site of an antebellum home represented oppression and a time for which I'm not proud to be associated even by the flimsiest link of geography. Newnan's history is storied and complicated, but most things worth remembering are.

Alan Jackson, the now famous country singer, is from Newnan. He lived in my neighborhood growing up - right down the street from us. I know most of the words of his old songs. I remember sitting on my uncle's porch, the grill fired up, my brother playing in the woods just off the yard in the distance, and me singing off-key to the country radio station. 

Living in a big city like D.C., I've found that it's somewhat unique to be from a small town in Georgia. There is little context for high school football rivalries, and friends who all worked at the same restaurant in town. I feel proud I've seen both sides.

Let's share a glass of cold lemonade while you tell me about where you come from.

Top 5 reasons to visit Newnan, Georgia: 

1. It's where I come from, duh.
2. Antebellum homes and architecture; Civil War history
3. Sweet tea, lemonade, fried chicken, fried okra, fried green tomatoes
4. It's the set for some popular movies and TV shows, past and present. Past: Fried Green Tomatoes, A Murder in Coweta County Present: Drop Dead Diva, The Walking Dead 
5. Easy day trip from Atlanta (30-45 minutes); driving distance from Savannah (4 hours)

other posts on Newnan

sugarloaf mountain northern peaks trail

travel tuesday: senoia, ga | home of the walking dead

xs and os, thankful

sparks of romance | a georgia wedding

There are some years that seem like a blur when I look back on them. I have to sit and remember what spectacular things occurred and where they happened. That is not the case with 2003 and 2004. Those years are lightning bolts of clarity when I think of them. Every time, every single little time they cross my mind, I laugh. Out loud. Because they were so fun. And they were so incredibly fun because my girlfriend Ashley and I made them that way. We lived big and loud, and we laughed until we peed our pants on more than a few occasions, and we did things that I can only shake my head at now, like, I'm so glad we didn't think twice and jumped in that lake fully clothed.

For those years Ashley was somehow both my rock and my spontaneity - a phenomenon of contrasting wonderful things that she does effortlessly. Our friendship has grown and ebbed over the years, ballooning and floating in various, sometimes separate and sometimes intertwining directions. She got married last weekend in Georgia to a man so good and so true and so meant for her that my heart swelled nearly out of my chest.

Melanie and I spent a long weekend back in our home state, reminiscing our friendship with Ashley, and all the years and moments that have led to where we are and she is now. It meant the world to me to be there, hearing her say she takes this man to be her partner in crime because I know so well that he's in for a lifetime of laughing until he pees his pants. I'm so happy for my friend.

And now, a lot of photos from Ashley's beautiful wedding. 

 

mi queso, su queso | real mexican cheese queso dip recipe

I beg of you -- please reconsider before you make a Velveeta-based dip for your Cinco de Mayo festivities. There's a better way. It's simple! And really, really delicious. I can't stress that part enough. Trust me on this.

My office is having an early Cinco celebration with a dip-off. I get crazed about these competitions. I search high and low for the perfect recipes, I go so far overboard I can't even see the ship, and I win. Every time. Knock on wood, because the competition doesn't start for another few hours!

I planned to make Queso Fundido con Chorizo (a baked, sizzling, smoldering dish of melted cheese, flavored with chorizo, jalapenos, peppers, and onions), but logistically, how could I get that to work still sizzling? I couldn't figure out a way so I decided to go with queso dip. I took a trip to El Progresso, a Mexican market in Mt. Plesant, and picked up some Crema, or Mexican sour cream, and a variety of Queso Fresco cheeses.

I searched recipes for blanco (white) queso dip using real cheese, and they were few and far between. The ones I did find had questionable reviews - multiple people said it turned out gloppy, and the cheese separated, creating an unappetizing mess. After finally finding half a dozen similar recipes with nice-looking results, I adapted what I liked from each to make my own.

I made a simple roux - melted better, milk, and flour to start. I sauteed onion, jalapeno peppers, and garlic next - my house smelled like a Mexican restaurant (my version of heaven, I think). I stirred in tomatoes and cilantro, then slowly mixed in cheese on low heat- half of which I grated from a block, the other half was shredded. I mixed in half a cup of Mexican crema to finish, testing for taste, and then I swooned. It's spicy, cheese, rich in flavor, and fragrant. This is the real (Tex-Mex) deal.

real cheese queso, adapted from Gourmet Veggie Mama and Homesick Texan

ingredients
2 tablespoons butter
2 tablespoons flour
1 cup milk (whole milk or a mixture of any with half and half is best)
1/2 medium white onion (mine measured 1 cup)
2 finely diced jalapenos
4-5 cloves garlic, minced (i use a cheese grater to do this)
2-3 tomatoes, diced
5 cups cheese in total -- i used mexican queso fresco (asadero) - you can use monterrey jack or cheddar
1/2 cup chopped cilantro (to taste)
1/2 cup crema or sour cream

steps 

1. melt the butter n a large saucepan over medium or medium-low heat (my burners are HOT so i used medium-low)
2. saute the onion and jalapenos until fragrant (3 minutes) + add the garlic and saute for 1 more minute
3. add flour and mix until it bubbles (it may seem too dry, but get the flour completely mixed in, it will even out)
4. stir in the milk a little at a time, breaking up lumps as you go. keep stirring until the mixture thickens (this won't take very long) 
5. add the tomatoes and stir well
6. lower the heat to very low 
7. add the cheese 1/4-1/2 cup at a time, stirring until it is completely melted each time before adding the next batch. 
8. once all the cheese has been mixed in, mix in the crema
9. serve!  

travel tuesday: senoia, georgia | home of the walking dead

My cousin John couldn't believe that I didn't know that the popular AMC show The Walking Dead is filmed in Georgia.

"It's not even just filmed in Georgia," his southern drawl punctuating every word. "It's filmed in Senoia!"

I grew up in Newnan, Georgia, a now-sprawling suburb 30 minutes southeast of Atlanta. It's in Coweta County. I grew up on the East side of the county. My middle school and high school were far out on the east side, so far I wonder now how they even really count as the same county. But just down the road from my middle school, off of Highway 16 is the small, quaint town of Senoia, or, as fans of the TV show know it, Woodbury. It's about a 15-20 minute drive, if that, from my childhood house.

To be honest with you, I'd never done more than see Senoia at a glance. I had no real reason to go into the town. It's country out there. It's all farm land and there's a house on the two-lane highway with a "Barbie beach." The barbies are dressed for different occasions - festive for the holidays, topless for Spring Break, I kid you not. It's country out there.

The day after John told me about The Walking Dead being filmed practically in our backyard, my girlfriend Tiffany suggested we meet in the middle between her place and my mom's house for dinner. "How about Senoia?" she texted, and I jumped at the opportunity to lay my eyes on the home of the zombies.

Senoia is picture-perfect. It has a Main Street, and the shop fronts are all colors of a gentle palette. The Zan Brown bar is there (Southern Ground Social Club), there's a pizza joint, a chocolate shop that carries zombie-shaped delights, and a coffee house that serves blood orange mimosas that sports a framed picture of the cast and a page from the script where they filmed inside. Fake storefronts dot the the little town - a bookstore that is nothing but a set.

Little known to me, Senoia has been the backdrop and set for a number of TV shows and movies. One of my summer guilty pleasures, Drop Dead Diva, has had film crews there, too. Then there are the southern traditions: Fried Green Tomatoes and Driving Miss Daisy. Every time I go back to rural/suburban Georgia I find more to love about it - bits of culture and history and lore that I wish I had known as a kid. Mel and I agreed as we drove through Atlanta this weekend - Senoia is a place we could happily retire someday.

I've never seen the show, but I feel like I've been a Woodbury resident my whole life. Don't worry - I've got season one queued up on Zan's Netflix.

 if you go... 

senoia, ga in the new york times

barbie beach

senoia becomes woodbury for the walking dead

while you're in the neighborhood... 

the woods in newnan, ga were my playground 

thanksgiving in newnan

writing beyond the blog | the equals record

In late August of last year, I covered the Republican National Convention as a journalist. It was my last hurrah as a TV news producer, and I spent a solid 60% of it serving as chauffeur to my correspondent and camera person. One afternoon they wanted to film a taped report near a run-down area of town, and they needed extensive B-roll, or stock footage of the area. I dropped them off on one street, with instructions to "park and wait" for their call. I smiled a smile so fake and somehow natural from my year and a half of perfecting it, and said, "Sure thing!"

I parked at a meter. It was something like 150 degrees outside, so I left the air conditioner on. I turned on music. I reclined. I lifted the seat up. I reclined again. I turned to a different radio station. I turned the music off. I turned the music on. I dug through my purse. I had finished my book. I went through my briefcase for the trip. I zipped it back up. I opened it again. I pulled out a 4-5 pages of google maps. I turned them over, grabbed the pen sticking out the top of my purse, balanced the paper on the steering wheel, and started to write.

I wrote for two hours, until my correspondent called and asked me to pick them up. I'd filled the backs of the sheets of paper with maps on the front, found more scrap paper in my notebook, and continued on, until I had no white space left.

That evening, after the convention's conclusion, I typed everything I'd written into a word document, emailed it to myself, and forgot about it for the next six months.

About a month ago, Melanie linked me to a post on the Equals Record, a quarterly print publication with a website dedicated to creative nonfiction written by women, that she thought I'd enjoy. I loved it, and I kept reading. Some of the pieces resonated with me, while others I skimmed.

I noticed a tab for submission information at the top of the website and read through it. I remembered the essay I had written that hot day in Florida back in August waiting for my crew, and without thinking or heavily editing it, I uploaded it, put in my personal information, and hit submit.

I feel like I've been lost lately, vacillating between whether to apply to grad school, how to pursue a career in travel writing that also pays my student loan debt, what I ultimately want, and so on. Since hitting "submit" to the Equals Record and hearing back from them that they'd like to publish my essay, and asking if I had a second part to it, I haven't felt as lost. I've been driven, inspired, and curious about what's next. Writing opportunities have opened up in other areas, as well.

All of these words and this very long post is to say that yesterday the Equals Record published my first essay, entitled, "A Fatherless Girl." The second part, "An Adopted Dad," is live today. It's wildly different from any writing I've ever published - it's not a blog, a byline, or a ghostwritten op-ed. I wrote yesterday on instagram that seeing it published made me nervous and "fulfilled." I felt awkward after saying that - "fulfilled." But it's true - writing for myself, about myself is scary, and it is fulfilling. Creative nonfiction has always been my favorite writing - it's downright awe-inspiring to see the various ways we all tell our stories, and I feel a little more centered having gone back to it.

I need to make more time to be alone with a pen and a few scratch sheets of paper.

"It's doubtful that anyone with an internet connection at his workplace is writing good fiction." - Jonathan Franzen, The Guardian 

take me away to tuscany

^^gianni berengo gardin, "toscana," 1965

You set me and my thoughts a-wandering

along the path to the eternal void;

and then

this wretched time flees, and with it

the throng of woes afflicting it and me;

and while I behold your peacefulness,

that warlike spirit that rages within me sleeps.

-Ugo Foscolo "To Evening" 1803

I took an art history class my freshman year of college. I'd never seen a classic work of art, let alone could I discern meaning and symbolism from one. The only creative bone I had in my body was a love of writing. I dabbled in poetry, but mostly I knew prose. I talked to my RA (resident assistant) about it in my dorm. We had a funny relationship - best friends, but sometimes something more that lingered so far under the surface I feel that funny tickle of uncertainty even typing it now, so many years later. But there was always something between us that clicked. We often talked until five in the morning - him laying on his bunk, me on his couch that he typically used for mediation and to make residents feel comfortable with a glass of tea or water while he helped them work out a problem. On one of those late nights, we talked about art. He liked art, appreciated it, had some exposure to it. I wistfully wondered what it'd be like to know more about it, to be versed in it, to look at something and know, with clarity in your soul, that it was good, moving, touching. In true RA fashion, he encouraged me to register for a course the following semester. Art History 101. He even told me which professor was best. I laughed. I really laughed at it. I could barely afford to stay at school - I'd narrowly escaped having to pack my bags and dejectedly move back to Georgia because I didn't have the financial aid I needed. To tack on a class that wasn't necessary to graduate felt frivolous, ridiculous even. I registered for that course anyway. 

I loved most of my classes in college. I loved learning. But this art class is one of my favorites I took. I got lost every day in the giant auditorium, felt exhilarated walking into the art building on campus, surrounded by poetry and photographs on the walls, pottery and sculptures around me, murals hanging from the ceiling. I pretended to fit in, melded into the scene around me, felt like, I could be an artist in another life. The mix of Bohemian joy attached so freely to the idea of "artist" and the East Coast education and cultured upbringing that seems to imbibe every collection of art filled me with a desire to be something I wasn't, had never been, but could be? Maybe? It was the possibility of a world I'd never known and where it could take me that transfixed me. 

I learned a lot in my single art history class. I found that I studied more for it than the English classes I lived for, and the foreign policy classes that breathed new life into me. Because it was so new to me, so different and unnatural, I worked harder at it. I left the class with an "A," and an appreciation for works of art where none had been before. 

But in all the years since then, I've stepped foot into a gallery less than a handful of times. I've forgotten how easily a work of art can take me somewhere I've never been and make me feel like I've lived there all my life. I've forgotten that art can be a time machine and a transporter, an emotional outlet, and an intellectual pursuit. 

This weekend, I let photographs take me to Italy, and I didn't want to leave. I visited the Phillips Collection - a beautiful, astounding collection of modern art in D.C., specifically to see the "Next Stop: Italy," an exhibit of 12 photos by Italian photographers, each paired with words from an Italian poet. 

I dilly-dallied in Italy, forlorn for places I've never been, uplifted by trails that mirror my path - winding and blazed, faded and walked, brand new and untarnished. I went to Italy this weekend for the cost of $12 and a willingness to let my mind wander. It won't be so long, this time, until I let my novice enjoyment of art take me somewhere new.

if you go... 

phillips collection

next stop italy exhibit runs through 4/28/13

admission: $12

tryst coffee is served on the bottom level; i recommend a good book and a chai tea

also by me

what are you reading (offline, that is?) equals record