Send us a text In this episode of Cornbread & Buttermilk, we do what decent people often do when the season turns—we put the dog in Jasper the Jeep and go looking for meaning in an unlikely place. Truffles, still young enough to believe the world is mostly good, is taken to meet Santa Claus at PetSmart, a bearded man dressed in red who smells faintly of pine, kibble, and human effort. The dog studies him carefully, as if deciding whether grace might come wrapped in a velvet coat. From the...

Send us a text There comes a moment in every young hound’s life when the good Lord nudges them—ever so gently—toward the straight and narrow. And in our little corner of Canton, where the pines lean in like old aunties waiting for gossip, that moment arrived on a quiet Tuesday morning when Truffles—our whiskered, wild-eyed German Wirehair Pointer pup stole Cornbreads left shoe. That’s when we knew: it was time for school. So gather close, dear friends, and rest your bones in our warm kitchen ...

Send us a text Now, folks, every dog’s got to start somewhere, and Truffles chose Episode 89 to make his big studio debut—walking in like a four-legged celebrity who already expects his own green room and a bowl of Dr. Marty’s finest puppy recipe. Papa and Buttermilk took him socializing all over Cherokee County this week, discovering more parks than a Baptist potluck has casseroles. Truffles sniffed every pine cone, introduced himself to the squirrels, and—bless his brave little heart—came f...

Send us a text “Food, Family & the Faithful Dog” Here in the South, the kitchen may be the heart of the home, but the dog lies faithfully beside the hearth. We believe: A Southern dog is more than a pet—they’re kin.Dogs are woven into our stories, fields, porches, and family traditions.Training a puppy is a sacred rite of patience and love.A dog is a bridge between generations—Granddaddy’s bird dog, Mama’s porch guardian, our children’s playmate.The South teaches us to live slow, savor mo...

Send us a text Down here, when the trees turn the color of sweet tea and the fields start whisperin’ of frost, folks know it’s time to ease into the rhythm of fall. The front porch becomes a sanctuary again — quilt over the knees, pecan shells crackin’, and that low hum of gratitude that only autumn can bring. In Cornbread’s kitchen, the season starts with a pan of sweet potato pone — thick as memory, slow as forgiveness. The scent of orange rind and butter curls through the house, minglin’ w...

Send us a text Welcome back, y’all, to Cornbread & Buttermilk. Tonight, we’re lifting the lid on a pot that’s been simmering for centuries — a Cajun gumbo, thick with history and flavored by tradition. We’ll trace the story of sassafras leaves, once brewed by Native Americans and carried into Cajun kitchens as filé powder, thickening gumbo with a touch of earth and memory. We’ll stir in okra, the African-born pod that crossed oceans to become another soul of this dish. And of course, we’l...

Send us a text There’s a street in Canton where the world tilts just slightly, and if you step through the doors of C’est la Vie, you find yourself no longer in a small Georgia town but in a place where eggs are gathered with reverence, butter melts like sunshine on bread, and cheese is tended with the same devotion we Southerners give to our biscuits. Folks may whisper that French cuisine is lofty, unreachable, meant for another sort of people altogether — but the truth is, it’s nothing more...

Send us a text There are places in the Appalachian mountains where the air holds secrets, and the soil keeps its own counsel. In the shadows of the laurel thickets, a humble plant lies waiting—ginseng, the root of power and promise. Folks call it “sang,” whispering its name like a prayer or a curse, for it’s said to heal the body, stir the spirit, and fetch a fortune if you can find it. But the season is short, just a breath of time between summer’s end and autumn’s hush, when the red berries...

Send us a text The old house creaked as if it had something to confess, and the air inside was thick with the perfume of molasses, ginger, and woodsmoke. On the hearth, a pan of gingerbread rose slow and steady, its sweetness laced with the bite of spice — a recipe carried through centuries, from English hearths to Virginia kitchens, then scrawled in Mary Randolph’s hand in 1824. Gingerbread wasn’t just cake in the South; it was memory dressed in sugar, consolation baked in molasses, a comfor...

Send us a text Brothers and sisters, gather close ‘round this table of remembrance, for I bring you tidings of a root born of clay and sunshine, humble in its shape yet mighty in its gift. The Lord Himself planted the sweet potato in the red earth of Dixie, that His children might endure famine, war, and weary winters with bellies still full. Do not scorn its wrinkled skin, nor turn from its orange flesh, for within lies a sermon sweeter than honey, stronger than the bread of kings. Hear me n...

Send us a text Friends, today we’re stepping away from the skillet and into the garden — into a place where the colors themselves feel like medicine. Think of the deep blues of blueberries, the ruby sparkle of pomegranate seeds, the dark, glossy shine of blackberries hanging heavy on the cane. These fruits aren’t just beautiful; they’re nature’s own pharmacy, packed with antioxidants that strengthen the body while they delight the tongue. For centuries in the South, folks have gathered wild b...

Send us a text In the cool of a Talking Rock morning, when the mist still clings to the hills and the dogs begin their restless pacing, Buttermilk ties on her faded apron. She knows they’re waiting—not for scraps, but for something fashioned with care. The old Southern kitchen hums with memory: iron pots, collard stems in the wash pan, and blackberries gathered from the thicket where snakes dare not wander when the dogs are near. “Y’all hush now,” she whispers, though her voice is more melody...

Send us a text Step through the garden gate with Cornbread & Buttermilk, where the paths are lined with roses, the air hums with bees, and the promise of green things yet to come stirs the soul. In this week’s episode, we wander through ten gardens without leaving our chairs—romantic and wild, artful and fine, glorious and natural. From the elegance of The New Romantic Garden to the humble wisdom of How to Garden When You Rent, we’ll leaf through the beauty, the lessons, and the stories t...

Send us a text The Southern night doesn’t fall; it settles. It seeps in slow, like molasses on a cold morning, curling around porch posts, weaving through the lattice of an old screen door. The sky, once ablaze with the last light of day, softens to a velvet hush — and then the South begins to sing. First, it’s the cicadas. Not just a hum, but a rising, pulsing chant that rattles the bones of ancient oaks and makes the very air vibrate with life. It’s as if the earth itself is sighing from th...

Send us a text “Y’all, it don’t matter how fresh your collards are if you’re storing ‘em in something leechin’ poison into the greens. That Tupperware from 1983 might just be the villain in your kitchen.” Cornbread & Buttermilk pull back the curtain on BPA, microplastics, and how even a humble sandwich bag can do harm if we ain’t paying attention. But they don’t just warn you—they walk you through affordable ways to keep your food safe and your wallet happy. From mason jars to cast iron, ...

Send us a text There comes a time, every so often, when a man looks at the unruly wild just beyond his porch and feels the old ache of Eden. Not the grand paradise, no—but something simpler, humbler. A patch of earth that minds its manners. A bit of order wrested from the green chaos. This past week, me and a good fella named Miguel laid hands on the front yard like two preachers at a tent revival. We weeded and cleared, pulled back thorn and vine like casting out evil spirits. Japanese Maple...

Send us a text Y’all, hold onto your berets—Cornbread & Buttermilk are heading to Paris! In this whimsical new episode, Cornbread takes a leaf from Jed Clampett’s book and swaps his rocking chair for a sidewalk café in Saint-Germain. With Buttermilk by his side and Julia Child in his heart, he’s fixin’ to trade collard greens for croissants and see just what the fuss is about at the oldest café in town—Le Procope. Their mission? A piping hot bowl of French Onion Soup, rich with memory and...

Send us a text Down in the shadowy green thickets of a Bourbon Island morning, where the orchid vines twist like old secrets and the air is thick with promise and perfume, a boy once climbed up to meet a bloom. He had no gloves, no knife, no bookish learning. Just nimble fingers, sharp eyes, and a mind that paid attention. Edmond Alba — born into bondage, orphaned by cruelty, forgotten by history — touched the heart of the vanilla orchid and showed it how to love by hand. What he gave the wor...

Send us a text “Good mornin’, Buttermilk — and good mornin’ to all y’all listening under this wide July sky. We’ve had a stretch of beautiful thunderstorms this week — the kind that come on like a hymn, with thunder grumblin’ in the distance and lightning flashin’ like God takin’ photographs. And I’ll tell you, Buttermilk, it carried me straight back to my barefoot summers in Georgia. I remember sittin’ on the carport, legs dangling off the edge, a wedge of watermelon in hand. I’d watch those...

Send us a text Somewhere between the hush of Spanish moss and the gospel hum of cast iron cooling on a windowsill, the South whispered her secrets into the hands of cooks who were listening. Hands that learned to measure by memory, taste by touch, and stir with a reverence born of stories told over supper. In this episode of Cornbread & Buttermilk, we gather around the table to honor the 2025 Southern recipients of the James Beard Awards—those rare culinary conjurers whose dishes carry th...