By Whitney White
Living abroad with my family is simultaneously good, weird, and freeing. As I sit down to pen these thoughts, I‘ve just kissed my eldest goodbye and sent him off to school. On a bus? Nope. He's walking, and he's only 6. Culturally, this behavior is expected in Germany.
My family history goes back a good ways in Northeast Georgia and particularly in Helen. My mom grew up on the headwaters of the Chattahoochee River. She and her four stair-step sisters, my grandparents and my great grandmother Leilah Abernathy lived on Scorpion Holler (now called Myra Branch Road to all the locals’ chagrin). They grew up wearing dresses made of potato sacks, making mud pies, gardening, canning and trying to stay out of trouble.
Welcome to the table, where I will contribute a semi-regular column about cooking and food and my insatiable addiction to both. Bound up in cooking is my creative outlet, my love language, an endless terrain to explore and connections to make the world over.
A couple summers ago, my two little boys and I spent four days in sunny Orlando. It was a last minute idea. I was supposed to go on a girls’ beach trip, but childcare fell through. Ultimately, it was God giving me a big fat wink because I wouldn’t trade that Orlando trip for anything.