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High Heeled Traveler The Magazine

EXPLORING HOME A collection of artist’s musings, curated by Washington, D.C. based blogger & perpetual traveler Jamie Hurst

Spring 2013



Contributors GRACE BARKLEY is a freelance writer and designer currently running around Savannah, GA. She is a perpetual hunter-gatherer and shares her finds on her blog, www. Grace is currently earning her M.F.A. in Writing from Savannah College of Art and Design. Her professional website is and she can be found on Twitter @runswithmarkers. Courtney Bird lives and works in New York City. In second grade, she wrote and illustrated a book of poems so tiny the words were only legible with a magnifying glass and she gave it to her mom for Christmas. Some time in the intervening twenty years, the book went missing. She’s been writing ever since.

Born in the cold North of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, Kate Lindblom actually grew up in the South, in Dune-

Liz Nunziato is a graphic designer, illustrator, and believer in creativity with purpose. She has a BFA in graphic design from The Cleveland Institute of Art, and has won American Graphic Design and ADDY awards for web and print design. Her work experience includes time within small New York studios, medium-sized agencies and one terribly gigantic corporation. Lately she stays busy freelancing from her home studio and hanging with her young son, Luca. Liz and her husband are from Buffalo, NY and currently live in Falls Church, Virginia. Her work can be seen at Megan Peter received a Bachelor’s Degree in both Fine Art and Art History at Columbia University in New York City. Megan completed her Master’s Degree in Studio Art at New York University, where she nurtured relationships with various artists and gallery owners. Megan’s personal artwork has been featured

Susanne Ryckman works and lives in Palm Harbor, Florida. She has a wonderful husband and 2-year-old daughter. The poem was inspired by her new “adventure” in life, running. She figure skated all of her life and coaches figure skating now, and running was a new challenge that she has embraced. She used to do local races with her grandfather and she dedicates each of her major runs to him. Poetry is just a hobby. Katherine Sandoz is a painter, illustrator, visual strategist, and sometimes fibers artist. She lives in Savannah, Georgia and works in a barn studio behind her home. She keeps her eyes trained on southern skies. Her website is and she can be found on Twitter/ Instagram/ Facebook: @katherinesandoz Sheri Galny Thomas is a mom and a Foreign Service officer spouse, and has spent years moving her “home” from one location to another. She seems to keep accumulating more stuff along the way and even brought home a pet from her previous posting overseas. Too bad German shepherds don’t fit underneath airline seats. While currently in the D.C. metro area, she is anxiously waiting to find out where home will be next...

A CHILD’S HOME Drawings by dcb 4

HOME Poetry by Kate Lindblom 5

RETURN TO NATURE Photography by Jamie Hurst 6 THE FARM HOUSE Short story by Grace Barkley 14

A T HOME WITH KDS INTERIORS Interview by Jamie Hurst 17

HOME RUN Poetry by Susanne Ryckman 22 OUR KITCHEN Drawing by dcb and Katherine Sandoz 23 A TASTE OF HOME Drawing and recipe by Jamie Hurst 24 AT HOME BY THE SEA Story by Megan Peter 28 HOME COOKED Recipe by Sarah Kaplan 32 EXPECT THE UNEXPECTED Short story by Carolyn Grier... page 35

HOME TOWN Photography by Sebastian Marin 37

HOME BASE Story by Sheri Galny Thomas 43

GOING HOME PLAYLISTS Music compilations by Liz Nunziato 44

HOME ROOM Story and photography by Jamie Hurst 46


by Jamie Hurst 48

SESTINA Poetry by Courtney Bird 59

WHITE REEBOKS Story by Jamie Hurst 60

A special thanks to Tammy Preston for encouraging me with a resounding “YES YES YES!!” to get started on this venture, to Katherine Sandoz for mentorship and spreading the word, and to Liz Nunziato for her invaluable design advice and expertise. Thanks to Jacqueline Ambrose for hours of dedicated editing. Also thank you to my brave contributors who enthusiastically gave me their creative juices and trusted me to present them faithfully in this inaugural issue. Last but not least, warm thanks to my handsome husband and my family for their love and support.


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Sarah Kaplan has lived and cooked in Manhattan for the last 7 years. Her 18-square foot kitchen doesn’t prevent her from tackling homemade cheeses, kneading breads and lightening up comfort food favorites. Follow her food and art focused daily musings on her blog City Mouse, Country Mouse at

Sebastian Marin is a Colombian Washington, D.C.-based photographer with experience in portrait and editorial photography. Please visit to view his portfolio, blog, and to contact him directly to inquire about his work. Instagram and Twitter @SebasMarin.

in galleries in Manhattan as well as in several private collections throughout North and South America. Megan has advised and curated the art collections of prominent financial CEOs, entrepreneurs, and corporate executives. Her website is


As a girl, Carolyn Grier was often reminded by her cattle-rancher father that she was the “wellbred offspring of a Jupiter filly and a Westgate stud.” Her father’s way with words and spirited storytelling left an indelible impression on her, and she carries on the family tradition to this day, sharing her lively and amusing stories with friends and loved ones alike.

din, Florida and Dallas, Texas. After attending college at the University of Florida and earning a Bachelor’s degree in English along with a Master’s Degree in Secondary English Education, she settled down in Tampa, Florida. Kate is currently in her sixth year as a high school English teacher and lives with her husband Brian, their Siberian husky, and two cats.



hank you so much for picking up the first issue of High Heeled Traveler Magazine! I am so excited to share this new venture with you. I hope you find the journey valuable and like nothing you have read before. High Heeled Traveler Magazine is a collection of short stories, poems, recipes, original art and photography that explores one concept in depth with each quarterly issue. For the inaugural issue I thought it important to ground our travels in the concept of home. If we don’t have steady legs to stand on, how shall we walk? As someone who leaves home again and again to challenge myself to explore the world, it becomes more and more essential to establish roots. It becomes important to have a strong sense of self and foundation in the safety and comfort of “home.”

Throughout the development of this issue, a few themes came to light. The first: most people are nostalgic for their childhood, and the memory of their childhood home becomes a sanctuary and a foothold. But “home” to a child is

Finally, home is the intangible memory of those loved ones we’ve lost along the way (Sestina, page 59, Home Run, page 22, and White Reeboks, page 60). Our memories of them motivate us to take action with our lives, to step out of our comfort zones. Thinking of their love and our time together gives us the courage to keep moving forward. The concept of home is re-established throughout our lives as we grow wiser, gain experience, and have growing families. Having a home becomes even more significant to the wanderer and traveler because when we push ourselves out of the bounds of familiarity, we need a solid grounding to check in with. After all, often times the best part about going on a trip is coming home.

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To start digging into this concept, I began thinking about the industry obsession with home design. From HGTV to and Pinterest, our society is driven by the need to have aesthetically pleasing spaces for nesting. I sat down with the creative duo behind KDS Interiors to answer from the perspective of professionals: what makes a house a home? (At Home with KDS Interiors, page 17)

The second theme is home on a broader scale. Home is supporting your local community, shopping the farmer’s market, and feeding your family seasonally and sustainably (Home Cooked, page 32). The nation’s capitol, Washington D.C., is the historical home to many great thinkers, writers, and displays of American architecture (Home Town, page 37). The soul longs to be in a natural state for a moment of rejuvenation and reflection (Return to Nature, page 6 and At Home by the Sea, page 28).


People generally think of home as a memory, as a taste, a smell or a sound and sometimes a place. It is when hearing that song brings you right back to your parents’ basement for a dance party (Going Home Playlists, page 44). It’s the memory of your childhood, a place you once lived or your grandmother’s house (The Farm House, page 14), the food you ate during a joyful time in your life, or the lingering taste of a glass of wine. Home is longing for the past, and is a physical place you cannot return to (Home Room, page 46). Home is the feeling you get when you walk in the door after being away (Going Home, page 48), or spending time with your animal companion (Expect the Unexpected, page 35). It is the feeling you get when you see your parents after months of separation. It is the taste of hot coffee first thing in the morning or the comfort of your favorite food (A Taste of Home, page 24).

something all together different. Their thoughts are raw and conceptual, not burdened with 20, 30, 50 years of life’s experience changing their memories. I hoped to contrast these perspectives in the first two articles of this magazine with a little boy’s drawings of what home means to him (A Child’s Home, page 4) and Kate Lindblom’s poem about the memory of her childhood home in Florida (Home, page 5). Building on that concept, as parents, it is important to create traditions and a sense of home for our children (Home Base, page 43).

A Child’s Home

Home Home is many rooms: the golden family room, a warm, tiled porch, siblings rooms you cannot go in. It means sharing a bathroom, diving loud and bubbly into the pool, and reading in the wide brown recliner, a rabbit’s nest.

drawings by dcb

Home has tuna noodle casserole, meatloaf with ketchup, stuffed green peppers, and stir fry again. It involves hiding your Halloween candy, opening packed lunches, and getting chocolate mousse pie on your birthday.

dcb, home no. 2 sharpie on index 5” x 3”, december 2012


ostalgia for childhood is one of the most common associations with “home”. I asked many people what home meant to them and countless times they replied with a memory about their first toy truck, their pet, their childhood home and relationships they had back in the day. I couldn’t help but think about home when I was as a child without the filter of 20 years of memories. My childhood memories have been loaded with the safety, comfort, and grounding I needed to get through the hardships of adulthood. But what is home to a child? Savannah artist Katherine Sandoz often lets her little boys collaborate with her on drawings and paintings, becoming inspired by their raw creativity and encouraging them to explore their interests (see an example later in this issue on page 25). I asked her to talk to her son about what home means to him and he drew these little sharpie sketches for her.

Home is thunderstorms roaring past, spitting lightning while your mother cradles and reassures you in your great grandmother’s wicker rocking chair. It is the sun baking every color a shade lighter: marine blue dries to powder, asphalt black becomes gray pebbles, neon orange fades to forgotten yellow.

words by Kate Lindblom

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dcb, home no.1 sharpie on index 5” x 3”, december 2012

Home has the wooden clock on the wall with a shiny brass pendulum that you have to wind by hand, and a cat, here, there, that bathes and naps and prowls in sharp sunlight.



Home implies a fresh yard with itchy grass and waxy palm trees. It needs hibiscus bushes of yellow and pink and red where the old lizards bask in the afternoon.

RETURN TO NATURE Sometimes the daily grind of civilized society leads even the steadfast city dweller’s soul to seek rejuvenation in nature’s quiet solitude. Luckily for Washingtonians and Virginians alike, we only need to jump off the Metro at Rosslyn and duck into Theodore Roosevelt Island to experience unbridaled nature right at our finger tips.. The city never seemed so far away.

Photography by Jamie Hurst

The Farm House words by Grace Barkley

The Setting: Mary’s Delight Farm: c. 1794, Sabillasville, Maryland The House:

Three The Front Yard: There is an oak tree that is too big to hug. I tried. When I was younger I used to build stick towns in the divot between two of the Medusa-like roots. There is a photo in the living room of my cousin Caroline, naked, taking a big whiff of the wildflowers. Four The Front Porch: I sat on the porch on summer nights when the concrete became cool to the touch, absorbing the mountain air and studying the fireflies. A rickety shelf made out of raw logs holds my grandmother’s barn shoes and food for her farm cats. The cat food tin is as old as me, a quaint hand-painted pastoral scene cracks and peels from the weather. A firewood stand holds logs for winter. In the summertime it is a home for spiders. Five The Basement: A dusty blue cellar door on the front porch leads down into the damp, dark basement. The

Nine The Living Room: My grandmother also has a matriarchal chair here. It is a green chenille wingback that rivals the comfort of a recliner while maintaining a chicer Victorian style. Every Sunday, she watches her favorite magazine show while knitting and draining the tea from a tea cozy-covered pot. She used to eat peanut butter and jelly toast on bread full of seeds. Food for rabbits, I used to think. Now, I eat peanut butter and jelly toast on seedy bread and she eats Greek yogurt with pumpkin seeds. Food for rabbits, I think. Ten The Office: The door to the office is always closed. My cousins and I used to sneak in to play on the tan box computer with dial-up. Our Neopets needed tending. We would communicate in hand signals and quiet whispers until we were discovered having too much “screen time”. The matriarchal spot in this room is the red leather armchair on wheels. Perhaps the best office chair I’ve seen. It reminds me of Cruella de Vil, draped in a black and white polka dot sheepskin.

Thirteen The Master Bath: I also feel like a princess in some grand drama when I walk up the three carpeted steps and sink into the Jacuzzi tub. The view from the bathroom window does not offer a scene from another wing in my castle, but a dribbling creek that meanders under a springy wood bridge. Fourteen The Guest Room: When it was just Caroline and me, the oldest, we each claimed a twin bed in this room. I will always want the flannel down comforters with large, pastel gingham check. Under their weight, Caroline and I talked until lulled to sleep under their secure hug. Fifteen The Guest Bath: An acid trip. I’m not sure who in the industry came up with the idea of colored porcelain. The color of the sink is one I would prefer for a Vespa, pistachio green. The fluorescent lighting is always blinking so that when in the broom closet-sized shower the steam and light combine forces to create a claustrophobic rave. I much prefer the princess bath.

Circa 1794, there is also a bread oven built in to the hearth. We never use it but my cousins and I used to play a game of Italian pizza chef with it.

Seven The Wool Room: Next to the fireplace is a spiral staircase painted burnt orange. One of my favorite photographs is of Caroline and I in polka dot dresses and Mary Janes sitting five steps up. When my Uncle Paul and his family lived with my grandmother, this was their “apartment.” My cousin Taylor, Paul’s daughter, slept in a twin bed that fit perfectly in the dormer window. She would store her prized possessions along the windowsill. One summer we made rock candy by dipping string over and over again into sugar water. We watched it crystalize in paper cups while we dreamt up a giant rock candy business operation. We were going to be rich.

Eleven The Stairs: The stairs are walnut, painted with a dark stain not thick enough though to cover the dings and clumsy signatures of past owners. The railing turns in a pleasantly smooth curve. I run my hand along, fingers delicately resting, not gripping the railing, pretending I am a debutante in the National Debutante Cotillion and Thanksgiving Ball in Washington, an event that apparently I have the “pedigree” for. Sometimes my grandmother sneaks up on me, one hand on my stomach and another at the base of my shoulders. “Stand up straight,” she says. “Tummy in.”I have kyphosis.

Eight The Dining Room: The dining room feels more like a hallway than a dining room. A crystal chandelier shoots dizzying prisms all over the yellow walls and I feel like Alice in Wonderland. Over the years we did more passing through than dining. One Thanksgiving my Uncle Mark brought his pregnant girlfriend Amy to the farm. We thought he had finally gotten it together, or maybe that was just me being naïve. She was different from

Twelve The Master Bedroom: There is a wroughtiron bed painted white. It is the most comfortable bed on the Eastern Seaboard. Sometimes, with all the relatives in town, I would be assigned to the second spot in my grandmother’s bed. An old dressing table is littered with small, embellished frames of her mother, her riding horses as a child, and the requisite pictures of her grandchildren as tots.

Sixteen The Attic: I am surprised I am not afraid of this eerie space. Here, Caroline, Taylor, Catherine and I choreographed routines to TLC’s “No Scrubs” and “Unpretty.” We made over my poor brother with army green eye shadow and recorded mix tapes with actual cassette tapes. One Thanksgiving while I lived in Italy, my cousins emailed me pictures of themselves in vintage frocks of my grandmother’s that they had dug up in the milieu of garment bags and hatboxes. I was jealous - Gami never let us go through her things, and also I knew my size 8 body would never fit into her size 2 dresses. Seventeen The Barns: The one at the top of the driveway holds the sheep. A football field and a half. The floor is packed with hay and a solid layer of Maryland dirt. When I was 12, we prodded the sheep until they hopped into a blue metal chute, dropping a guillotine-style door so they couldn’t go any further. Rich, the farmhand, vaccinated

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Two The Driveway: It is gravel. At the mouth, a black painted gate and bunches of those swooshy oat-like grasses. You can park there in the small nook by the fence or head to the side entrance where everyone who’s family or familiar grabs a spot. Sidling up to the two-foot rock wall we throw open the car door push our feet outward but not letting them touch the ground yet. Cat-like, we must stretch our cramping muscles.

Six The Dining Room: Every farm must have a farm table. Gami’s has two church pew benches on either side and only one regular chair at the head of the table, for her of course. She is the matriarch and queen of the house. She and my grandfather divorced the year before I was born. On the seat is a hand-hooked pad with a large yellow flower. A 70’s relic, likely. I often got in trouble for playing with the honey pot during dinnertime. I would open the lid and take out the wooden dipper and watch the honey run slowly back into its ceramic container. At the far end of the dining room is the fireplace flanked by two spindly rocking chairs. This is where I learned how to build a fire. Here, and in the driveway, stacking a perfect hierarchy of paper, kindling, branches and then logs. Circa 1794, there is also a bread oven built in to the hearth. We never use it but my cousins and I used to play a game of Italian pizza chef with it.

all of us, cussing at the dinner table and hooting loudly with mash potatoes on her tongue. Four months later my cousin Serena was born. The next Thanksgiving Amy didn’t come back.



One Getting There: My grandmother lives on a farm near Gettysburg, Pennsylvania. The farm itself is in Maryland though, in a town called Sabillasville. On the main drag there is only a hardware store and three churches. Down the road is the Victor Cullen Center. The old colonial revival building looks like it could be home to the fictional Cullens. Originally, it housed the Maryland Tuberculosis Sanatorium. Sabillasville is not close to the interstate like my suburban childhood home. Instead, we exit the highway at least an hour before we will actually see her yellow clapboard farmhouse donning the black shutters with moon cutouts. We ride down Harbaugh Road, the roller coaster road. And even though my youngest sibling is high school-aged, we will always wail and scream like we are actually on some spindly structure named “The Vortex” or “The Point of All Despair.”

steps are so shallow that my size ten feet hang off the edge of each step as I carefully make my way down to get dinner materials. The ceiling is low and the rafters exposed. A large industrial fridge with lock and key holds white paper packages. Legs, chops, stew makings. My grandmother raises sheep here. I don’t like to think about how my favorite childhood lamb, Oreo, probably ended up in that fridge. I shudder as I feel a spider web graze my arm.

each of them in the buttocks. I refused to help with that part of the activity. The second barn lies at the bottom of the hill, a cozy abode for tractors. Eighteen The Hill: My great-grandmother’s second husband got electrocuted once on the fence that divides the driveway and the hill where the sheep graze. The hill is blind. Only if you are brave enough to open the tractor gate and bat the sheep away can you see what is on the other side. It is not much. Sometimes we picked cherries from the trees over the crest, but they were bitter.



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interview by Jamie Hurst images courtesty of Randy Smith Photo

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Nineteen The Powder Room: My grandmother moved to Mary’s Delight in 1988. This bathroom is the last corner of the house that still screams 80s. The floor is tan linoleum with faux cracks and texture. The wallpaper is textured and tacky. My mother would always make us use the bathroom “one more time” before we got into the car at 5 a.m. to return to North Carolina. On the wall is the timeless piece of poetry that I read every time before we left.


On a chilly winter afternoon in Tampa, Florida I sat down with Katie Kirby, President, and Elaine Stuart, Senior Design Consultant, the creative forces behind the renowned interior design firm KDS Interiors, Inc, for a light lunch in the sun-filled atrium of the Oxford Exchange. I wanted to get the interior designers’ perspective on what really makes a house a home.


KATIE: At KDS Interiors we do residential and commercial interior design. Our design philosophy for making a house a home is really incorporating everything that is important to the client and what home is for them. If someone travels a lot we want to make sure his or her home doesn’t feel like a hotel. That’s important. Really listening to their feedback and their sense of what’s comfortable and homey to them, and then bringing that vision to life. I think every client has a different idea of what that is, and we try not to focus on necessarily one style of design but to be really adaptable and to be really good designers of whatever that client’s style is.

There is a huge culture of design [in the United States]. Everyone wants to have his or her own style of interior design. There are lots of design blogs, websites, theories, trends and TV shows. What advice could you give on how people can make their house a home? Something that they could do really easily? Maybe is there a trend or certain style? Or should people just stick with what means something to them [and ignore the trends]? KATIE: Sometimes you can be tempted to be safe and neutral, because it is an investment and you want [your home] to age with you and not get sick of it. And I would say, yeah

A lot of people have a vision for what they know they want but [aren’t] the creative [type] to make it come to life.

ELAINE: I totally agree. The only thing I would add is that when you are all finished and you do the grand reveal to the client, our goal is that their response is “you really listened to everything I said and you really captured us. This looks like us this feels like us. You really got us and made this our home.” That’s our goal. JAMIE: So helping someone design their space is to really bring together what they have, maybe they have different

that’s a good theory behind big investment pieces but there should be some stuff that you have that you just love and maybe you are going to want to change next year or the year after that and that’s OK too.

But to really do exactly what is your style and what makes your heart beat because that is going to make it feel more personal and make it feel like your home rather than just a neutral space that could be anyone’s home. JAMIE: Why would I choose to hire a designer versus just putting my stuff around my house myself? KATIE: Some people have a talent for interior design and there is a lot of intrinsic value that comes along with that. People make a lot of mistakes even just in space planning for their home, purchasing furniture that they really can’t ever end up using. We’ll have clients that have whole houses full of stuff they purchased at auctions and can maybe use a fourth of it, even in a huge house. So I think space planning is the biggest thing. A lot of people have a vision for what they know they want but [aren’t] the creative [type] to make it come to life. So, the value is that of having the vision or concept and needing someone to execute it because it won’t be exactly what you had in mind if you did it yourself. ELAINE: I would say 90% of the people out there have time management problems. Their life is jam-packed with work, children, Cub Scouts, church… and usually both people are working full time outside the home. And again it’s like, “ok well, we have 3 hours this Saturday of the whole month and

we are going to run out to the local furniture store and buy new furniture.” Space planning is not considered. Nothing is considered; it’s just an impulse buy. Like “This is our time we gotta do this right now.” The huge thing that I think a designer can bring to you and your home is that we do it for you. When we sit down with you and talk to you about who you are, what you want, what’s important to you, and at the end of the day what do you want your home to be for you. Is it your sanctuary? Is it your place of rest? Is it your party space? Is it mostly about your children? What is it you want your home to be? What does it feel like? Look like? Casual? Elegant? And then we’re going to go spend hours and hours and hours thinking about that for you and putting together a plan you can implement all at once or step by step. You can take the plan and build it to where your home becomes the home you want it to be without investing all your time doing it. JAMIE: People wanting to have their space but not having the time or money. I never thought about it before like that, just running out and buying something. You don’t know what you’re buying and you buy it over and over. You waste a lot of time and money trying to make your house your home and then end up having to replace everything. Even if it’s from IKEA.

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tastes, elevating what they couldn’t do on their own but really making it them.



JAMIE: Tell me a little bit about KDS Interiors and what your design philosophy is for making a house a home.

Is there an object in your home that you go to that, a personal thing, that makes your house a home? KATIE: Yeah, us it’s our big sectional in our blue room, which we’ve had ever since we’ve moved in there. And it’s just the biggest most comfortable sectional that everyone just loves to pile on and sleep on. It’s just comfortable and a place of so many good conversations and family gatherings. It’s kind of our central hub.

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Check out to see KDS Interiors’ full portfolio and to inquire about making an appointment.


ELAINE: I think for us, the dining room table. You know, my favorite thing is to provide food for people that I love, and when I think back on my favorite, favorite family times its either been around our patio table when the girls were all in high school and they had their friends over, and we could sit out there and eat chicken wings and tell stories and laugh for literally hours. Or Thanksgiving dinner around the formal dining room table – and again it would start out as dinner, then have a glass of wine or coffee and just sit there with dessert and still sitting there for an hour later laughing. And it was even that way when I was a child growing up. Sitting around the dining room table is really where we shared our thoughts and ideas. Where we told our children how it used to be and talked about the future. So yeah, I would say the dining room table.

Home Run Laces tied in a foot embrace, Breathing starts before the race. Headphones are blaring songs of inspiration, Forehead full of nervous perspiration. Clock starts and muscles tighten Work out has begun, hopes heighten. Steady beat on pavement and in the soul Home is what my running shoes control. Memories and faces have time to dance through my head Making each mile a gift not a dread. This was a different race in so many ways I ran alone and not with my family like the good ol’ days. Running the route, each corner and street, Brings back the past thoughts, so sweet. Rounding the last bit of track, you start to hear The crowds of friends and families starting to cheer. Looking up in the stands for ones you love But instead I have to look to the clouds above. That was where my fan club sat, smiled and cared. It was a tradition that he started and shared. Tears filled my eyes with accomplishment as I cried Home is where I feel my grandfather’s pride.

words by Susanne Ryckman

dcb & Katherine Sandoz, our kitchen, mixed media on index, 9” x 12” 2011-2012

A Taste of Home words and drawing by Jamie Hurst


y mother made biscuits for brunch, special occasions, or when she needed comfort. She would serve everyone their breakfast; loosely scrambled eggs, bacon crisped in the microwave, seasonal fruit, and delicious biscuits. Then she would stand at the counter, over the tray, still hot from the oven, and purposefully dress her biscuits with a glob of soft butter and a long squeeze of honey. The honey would drip and sizzle on the pan and flow down her fingers while she quickly, but methodically devoured it. No time to bring them to the table. She would do this quietly as if we weren’t there. She was in a moment of pure bliss. To me, biscuits are an art form. They are regionally different - a biscuit in England is a sweet cookie, one in the southern United States is a savory bread, almost like a moist scone. They are also taste specific, some people preferring buttermilk to cream, or a doughy texture to flakey. Southern American biscuits are intended to be savory and are traditionally swimming in gravy or moistened with a pat of butter as a side to a hearty dinner or to eggs and grits with breakfast.

One can bake biscuits in many variations of these basic ingredients. This is why it took me so long to even attempt to make them from scratch and to find the perfect balance of crumbly to doughy as well as not too heavy. I’ve tried combinations of wheat, white, bread, and pastry flour. Whole sticks of butter or just a few tablespoons and almost every type of milk imaginable have been mixed together with my fingers and tasted with my tongue.

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I didn’t realize I needed biscuits or even that they were a crucial part of my existence until I moved away from my childhood home. Far away in Paris, France. I didn’t even feel homesick there. I felt like I belonged there and could stay forever and never look back. My soul connected with the way of life, the language, and the history worn into the streets. I seemed to know my way down this new path I had never walked before. I changed my style, and began dreaming in French (and babbling it after a few beers).


The basic ingredients include all-purpose flour, salt, sugar, baking powder, butter, and milk, and sometimes eggs are added. The texture of biscuits ranges from dense and scone like to a layered, buttery consistency. I think an even amount of both is perfect. One can substitute cow’s butter with goat’s butter and almond milk for cow’s milk, cream, or buttermilk for the dairy intolerant. You can experiment with different types of flour, like almond or gluten-free.

Paris had its own smorgasbord of treats. After all, how could I not eat croissants and a drink a little coffee while in the City of Lights? That’s the stuff movies are made of and what countless pictures on Pinterest depict. I liked the croissants and macaroons and mille-feuille, however I still missed two things that Paris just couldn’t replicate – fried chicken and biscuits. I moved to New York City shortly after leaving Paris. I moved there to work, which was decidedly less romantic than being in Paris to study art. The City was captivating in its own right though, and I was charmed the moment I stepped out of the yellow taxicab and into my little 300 square foot apartment. I worked very hard and for long hours, finding my place in the art world. It was incredibly difficult and rewarding. I started making great friends and settling in after a few months. But, when homesickness hit me in the middle of winter, I wanted comfort food.


The bagel is to New York what the croissant is to Paris. It’s the city’s signature quick breakfast staple. The bagels are chewy, warm, and soft, and really do stand up to their reputation. So I tired to sooth myself with the most delicious bagels I could find. But they did not fix my homesickness. Nothing worked. All I wanted to do was to be in my tiny shoebox apartment, alone, watch No Reservations, and to eat a tray full of piping hot buttery biscuits while standing at the table barefoot.

Spring 2013


After a long, fruitless search for good biscuits in NYC, I started making my own. The winter was cold, and I was a miserable Floridian. A southern style restaurant down the street had decent ones, but the wait for a table was always over an hour and you had to stand outside. I couldn’t wait for an hour in the freezing cold for a decent biscuit. My new northern friends didn’t understand my distress. Surely bagels were just as satisfying, right? After all, it was their comfort food. I got to work in the kitchen, clumsily making my way through recipes and trying to understand what worked and what didn’t. I had a box of Bisquick on hand just in case I became desperate and couldn’t take the risk of having nothing. When my parents came to visit, I served them pre-made biscuits from a tube and we ate them greedily. As if there wasn’t a perfectly delicious Jewish bakery around the corner.

Now, years later and living in Washington D.C., when I have overnight guests, I always serve freshly ground French pressed coffee and my now famous (amongst friends and family anyways) homemade biscuits in the mornings. I provide a plethora of dressing options for my guests including locally made jams, honey, butter, and sometimes gravy, all from our very bountiful farmers market. They are always impressed by the market. Then, as the hot biscuits melt in their mouth, they ask me for my recipe. I start by listing the ingredients that I’ve developed over the years - one and a half cups of flour, two tablespoons each of baking powder and sugar, a pinch or two of salt, a half to three quarters of a stick of cold butter, and a halfcup of cold buttermilk. If you don’t have buttermilk, use a tad more than a half-cup of regular milk, but no less than 2% milk fat. Then I talk about how once the dry ingredients are mixed together, you put the cold butter in with your hands, physically touching it and breaking down the butter into the flour mixture until its coarsely and thoroughly mixed. Make a well in the center of the flour, then add the buttermilk, mix with a fork until it just comes together, then kneed slightly and shape into an elongated disk. Pull individual biscuits off the disk into six evenly sized, slightly flattened balls. Some will suggest rolling the dough out and cutting circular shapes for each biscuit. But I say waste not, want not, and use all that dough. Make sure you get it all on the cookie sheet so you can devour it in just 10-12 minutes. Set the oven to 400 degrees Fahrenheit. The recipe can be tweaked to accommodate the addition of sweet, like chocolate, or savory, like bits of cheddar cheese and bacon. But I like them in their simplest state and right out of the oven. Once piping hot on the plate, quickly run your knife through the center. Then use the warmed knife to cut a dab of butter. You don’t want to butter to over-power the rest of the flavors, so I use only enough to moisten a bit of the top. Then drizzle the honey, using a quick squeeze more than you think you need or want. I let it drip onto the plate and drip down my fingers as the conversations around me fade and the flakey doughy goodness fills my mouth, my stomach, and my soul.

“Travel does not exist without home... If we never return to the place we started, we would just be wandering, lost. Home is a reflecting surface, a place to measure our growth and enrich us after being infused with the outside world.” Josh Gates, Destination Truth: Memoirs of a Monster Hunter

At Home by the Sea words by Megan Peter


’ve lived in coastal New Jersey for the majority of my life and spending time at the shore was magical. My memories of learning to swim, jumping in the ocean’s waves, digging my feet in the sand, and tasting salt in the air are deeply embedded in the fabric of my being, and physically define my home.


I love the peace of the ocean and the calm that washes over me when I close my eyes and listen to the rhythm of the waves breaking along the shore. It’s one of the most magnificent feelings, when your breathing regulates and you are able to still your mind and body. Standing at the shoreline and looking over the ocean’s endless expanse brings both tranquility and the sense that our place in the world is quite small indeed.

Spring 2013


Hurricane Sandy made us feel even smaller, and more helpless as mother nature delivered a brutal storm to our community. The storm gutted many familiar landmarks, destroyed homes, and up-ended lives, the sense of loss washing over us just as the oceans had washed over the dunes to deliver devastation. Though the sting of destruction was, and still is, so enveloping, many people have found hope and solace in rebuilding and restoring the structures that were just as much a part of shore life as the sand, sea and sun. One of the ways I find solace is enjoying a beautiful scene, whether it is in nature, or through an artistic expression that transcends a moment in time. A great work of art can evoke the sublime and conjures an emotional reaction or feeling of nostalgia for what once was. Two of my favorite artists live in coastal areas of New York and New Jersey and paint images of their home environment. Many of their works reflect the sea. These images seem especially relevant in light of these recent events and are a visual reminder of what so many of us love about our home. Jim Inzero, Ascend into Darkness, 39” x 69” Encaustic on Wood

Jim Inzero creates rich, sensory works through his encaustic paintings. Encaustic is comprised of beeswax and resin, which creates a lush and sometimes textured appearance. In Jim’s own words, “Many of my pieces depict the beauty of the Eastern coastline. From participating in the sport of sailing and living on the coast, I have witnessed first hand the power that water can posses. For that, my paintings of sailboats and water reflect this influence inside of me.”

Jim Inzero, Head to Head, 42” x 42” Encaustic on Wood

Zu Sheng Yu, Boat, 40” x 60” Oil on Canvas

Zu Sheng Yu is a Chinese artist who moved to the United States a little over 20 years ago and resides in Long Island, New York. His paintings are characterized by beautiful, realistic renderings of nature in oil paint. Zu Sheng Yu is an expert at creating visual moments in his work, where the viewer experiences a calm serenity in his paintings.

Zu Sheng Yu, Tide, 36” x 36” Oil on Canvas Jim Inzero, Deep Sea, 24” x 32” Encaustic on Wood

Zu Sheng Yu, Egrets in the Marsh, 36” x 36” Oil on Canvas

Home Cooked:

A Winter Farm Market Dinner


words & image by Sarah Kaplan

t can be a beautiful spring day or a bitterly cold morning, but like clockwork the white tents go up each Sunday across from the Museum of Natural History on the Upper West Side. One of my favorite weekend activities is visiting the farmer’s market in my neighborhood. A year-round market means a huge variety of produce month to month, from local honey to the earliest asparagus spears, Jersey tomatoes and Long Island sweet corn. Your food will always taste freshest and best when you buy locally and seasonally. Plus, buying from a market encourages you to cook with unprocessed and healthful ingredients while supporting small farmers and purveyors. It’s okay to supplement as needed at your neighborhood grocery, especially for canned goods or bulk grains. But produce and meats will usually taste better and cost less at your local greenmarket- and really, is there anything chicer than strolling through your neighborhood with a freshly baked focaccia and a bouquet of flowers tucked under your elbow?

To find a green market in your area, search by zip code on

Prep Time 25 minutes Total Time 1 hour 45 minutes Makes one 11-by-13-inch potpie Serves 8

DirectionsMake the filling: Heat oil in a large Dutch oven over medium heat. Rinse leeks well in bowl of cold water to clean; grit will fall to the bottom of the bowl, leeks will float. Cook leeks and garlic until tender, about 5 minutes. Add butternut squash, carrots, beans, tomatoes with juice and the stock or water. Bring to a gentle simmer. Cook, covered, until vegetables are just tender, about 20 minutes. Stir in cheese, and season with salt and pepper. Remove from heat and set aside. Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Make the topping: Whisk together flours, baking powder, and 1-teaspoon salt in a medium bowl. Cut in butter using a pastry cutter or rub in with your fingers until small clumps form. Stir in cheese. Add cream, and stir with a fork until sticky dough forms. If too wet, add flour, ½ teaspoon at a time, until dough comes together. Divide into 8 balls (about 1/2 cup each). Transfer filling to an 11-by-13-inch (10-cup) baking dish, top with dough balls, and brush with cream. Bake until topping is golden and filling is bubbling, about 55 minutes. If biscuits darken too quickly, tent with foil.

33 Spring 2013

Baked Minestrone with Whole Wheat Parmesan Biscuits (adapted from Martha Stewart)

For The Topping 1 cup all-purpose flour 1 cup whole wheat flour 2 teaspoons baking powder Coarse salt 1 stick cold unsalted butter, cut into small pieces 1 cup finely grated Parmesan cheese (2 ounces) 1 1/2 cups heavy cream, plus more for brushing HIGH HEELED TRAVELER

I was inspired to make this hearty dish one recent blustery Sunday. Confronted with mostly hearty winter root vegetables at my market, this was the perfect mid-winter meal. It feels indulgent- and it is, especially with the addition of butter and cream- but is also balanced by the inclusion of lots of veggies, a mixture of white and wholewheat flour, and a clear stock. Play around with different combinations of fillings depending on your taste; you could add kale, mushrooms, white or sweet potatoes. Use water or vegetable stock rather than chicken broth to keep this vegetarian.

For The Filling 3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil 3 leeks, white and pale-green parts only, quartered lengthwise, thinly sliced crosswise, and rinsed well 2 garlic cloves, minced ½ pound butternut squash, peeled and cut into 1/2-inch cubes (2 cups) ½ pound carrots, peeled and cut into ½-inch cubes (2 cups) 1 can (14 ounces) cannellini beans, drained (or soak your own beans) 1 can (15 ounces) peeled whole tomatoes and their juices 3 cups chicken stock or water 1/4 cup finely grated Parmesan cheese (1/2 ounce) Coarse salt and freshly ground pepper

Expect the Unexpected


words and image by Carolyn Grier

round our house, I have come to expect the unexpected. Our 12 pound Jack Russell terrier, Snickers, serves up the surprising on a regular basis. This little hell raiser became known as Snick Vicious on a sublime spring morning, when a leisurely stroll took a startling turn. Cupping a steaming mug of coffee, I walked outside with Snickers to enjoy the sunrise and the birdsong. The new day dazzled as the sun lit the dew-blanketed leaves and sheaves of grass. With every breath, I gave thanks for the peace that a new day brings. I gazed at the long shadows cast by the sun peeking through the stately pines…when all of a sudden I saw something move. “What the hell is that?” I wondered. The dim light nearly made the animal indistinguishable from the paved road at the end of our 100-foot driveway. Not wanting to alert Snickers, I took a couple of slow steps toward it. My eyes finally recognized its form. “A fox! That ain’t good!” A fox is a nocturnal animal. For it to be out in the morning light could only mean one thing: rabies.

You’ve gotta love a dog whose antics inspire novel nick names. When she got into a fistfight with the fox, she became Snick Vicious. When she bounced like a kangaroo on a pogo stick in the headlights of my car when I came home at night, she became Snicker Do. When she pounced on lit cherry bombs on the Fourth of July, she became Doddle, Doodle Doo. When she protected me from visitors with a guttural growl and swift advance, she became Snickers Don’t! When she climbed the oak tree in pursuit of a dove, she became Do. Why oh why would I train the tenacity and spunk out of her? Would she do that to me? There are times when my behavior is less than stellar. When I have a “moment,” does she stomp her foot, strap a leash around my neck and haul me off to etiquette school? No! She crawls up in my lap and stares at me until I calm down so she can catch a few z’s. She accepts me just for who I am. Maybe in a world full of so much “you should be” and “you shouldn’t be” it’s best to “be” just so. But where’s the spice, the delight, the joy in that? If there be any noteworthy training, it’s not what others would have me train out of Snickers, it’s what Snickers has trained into me. She has trained me to expect her to accept me just the way I am. No judgment, just love. Perhaps for some, acceptance is unexpected. But around our house, I have come to expect the unexpected.

35 Spring 2013

I bolted to Snickers’ rescue in my oversized robe and fuzzy pink slippers with scalding coffee splashing over my hand. Circling the two like a cockfight referee, I jumped just out of reach each time the brawl swirled in my direction. I looked for an opening to snatch Snickers up so she or the fox wouldn’t bite me. In a turn of tails, she had the fox in a chokehold and began pulling it backwards. I reached down, grabbed her back leg and snatched her straight up in the air with the fox still attached! A solid shaking loosened her grip and freed the fox from her jaws. The fox landed on all fours and charged me bearing its pearly whites. My mouth couldn’t catch up with my feet - I was flying in the opposite direction long before my scream met my lips, Snickers still in tow.

I shared the story with some friends, who thought the inconvenient position Snickers had put me in was a terrible plight and that I should immediately enroll her into obedience school. I listened politely and silently disagreed. It seems that some folks don’t appreciate her unruly ways. They don’t find her demeanor desirable. Well, lucky for them, she ain’t their dog! She’s all mine and I find her unconventional style stimulating, humorous, even downright admirable.


I glanced at Snickers. She stared in its direction, frozen in huntress stance. I lunged at her to squelch her advance, but my speed was no match for hers. She shot off like an F16 chasing a Russian MiG. She hit that fox doing 90 and the fight was on! They were a tornado of fur and fangs; gnarling, hissing, gnashing and screaming.

I spent the next two hours on the phone with the vet, my doctor and animal control to determine the proper course of action a person should take when their dog gets in a fistfight with a rabid fox. Seems Snick Vicious and I were under observation for the next 10 days! I really hoped we wouldn’t contract rabies. I wasn’t too concerned about the fever, fatigue and headache, but I really didn’t want to foam at the mouth!

HOME TOWN Washington, D.C. is home to our nation’s capitol. With that brings a rich history of American culture and architecture that is often over-looked in the tour books focused on the monuments and Capitol Buidling. Many great thinkers and writers called this city theirs and quite possibly lived next door to or in the homes Washingtonians live in today. Sebastian Martin takes us on a visual journey through the historical streets of Georgetown and DuPont Circle.

photography by Sebastian Marin


Spring 2013


Spring 2013

Home Base

Establishing Home in an Ever-changing Environment words by Sheri Galny Thomas

“Hold on, to me as we go As we roll down this unfamiliar road And although this wave is stringing us along Just know you’re not alone Cause I’m going to make this place your home.”


“Home” by Phillip Phillips

e’ve all heard the song and yes, it is overplayed. But as a mother who moves frequently and often to far-flung locations across the globe, there aren’t words that exist to better describe the “home” that I attempt every day to establish for my children. And I know it’s not just me. Increasing globalization pulls more and more into this nomadic lifestyle, whereas before it seemed to be primarily Foreign Service, military, and missionaries (we’ve been two out of three). In a world where friends you meet almost instantaneously become your family, home takes on an entirely new meaning. Home is where the heart is…home is a feeling…home is a place…home is a person…home is where you grew up…I’ve heard all these definitions of home. I would argue, however, that home is whatever you make it, wherever you are, and whoever is with you. When the only thing that is constant is change, it becomes increasingly important to establish traditions, even seemingly small ones, so that a thread of consistency is woven between varied people and places.

Traditions give family members a stronger sense of security and belonging, something that children desperately need, especially as they become teenagers (heaven help me, I have one now). The need to know that they belong somewhere is imperative during a time in their lives when they are trying to figure out who they are. And that somewhere needs to be their home, regardless of where home might currently be.

- Sarah Dessen, What Happened to Goodbye

43 Spring 2013

“Home wasn’t a set house, or a single town on a map. It was wherever the people who loved you were, whenever you were together. Not a place, but a moment, and then another, building on each other like bricks to create a solid shelter that you take with you for your entire life, wherever you may go.”


Decorating for Christmas is one of ways I try to establish home. No matter where we are, and even if it’s summer in December (as it was when we lived south of the equator), I like to pull out the same decorations year after year, giving the kids some semblance of continuity. We pull out the same ornaments, many representing places that we’ve lived, and each child putting up the ones with their name and face on it or those they have lovingly made. And each year, I hide each and every baby Jesus from my multiple Nativity scenes until Christmas morning, when they all magically appear.

Going Home Playlists words, art, & mix by Liz Nunziato

Return to the Rust Belt



LOVE CAME HERE Lhasa De Sela HO HEY The Lumineers DEVILS & DUST Bruce Springsteen SIGNS & SIGNIFIERS JD McPherson COMING HOME City And Color ALL I EVER KNOW Trevor Hall

House Party for 80’s Babies

FOREIGN COUNTRY Christina Courtin FREE DIVING Nigo BLACK MONDAY Lowest of the Low RUN Snow Patrol P LAY WITH FIRE The Rolling Stones  EEDLE IN THE HAY N Elliot Smith STAGED NAMES Pickwick THESE DAYS Nico VOLCANO Damien Rice SKY Joshua Radin featuring Ingrid Michaelson

DESCRIPTION This is a mellow collection of alternative bands, singer-songwriters, and b-side tracks from major rock players. It contains both regional and globally popular musicians, past and present, in an eclectic but methodical way. Many of the artists are Canadian, because they have a huge influence on the Buffalo music scene. One artist, Christina Courtin, was a highschool friend of mine who went on to Juiliard, collaborated with Yo-Yo Ma, and now has a huge following in Brooklyn and Manhattan. Poignant at times but rarely melancholy, these songs all capture the feel of Buffalo and my relationship with the culture there.

SCENARIO Your’e back in town for the holidays, hanging out at your cousin’s house at 1 a.m. The aunts and uncles have long gone home or to bed in the “finished” basement guest rooms. You and some other friends from highschool (one of whom is now married to your sister) are still reeling from travel and couldn’t possibly sleep. There are a few beat-up decks of cards, and someone has turned a Jenga set into a drinking game - but no one remembers the rules. Together you eat dinner party leftovers while remixing drinks in an ever more randomized assortment of holiday barware. The night descends into debauchery of the vernacular. Home is the place where people dance in the kitchen.


DESCRIPTION This playlist has old and new, combined in the way you might hear if someone hooked up an ipod at your house party and played to the crowd. It’s varied in style but focuses on new dance music and a few great throw-backs for people who remember highschool in the 90’s & college in the 2000’s fondly.


45 Spring 2013

Spring 2013


We’re driving down the I-90, headed to Buffalo for another “vacation” from the big city where our jobs and lives reside. We fly past the snow-covered salt mines, past the outlet malls, past the past and towards our history; our family. Dear hometown of Buffalo: here we go again. It’s the city of good neighbors, the nickel city, our humble hometown. Burning my mouth on a cup of Tim Horton’s coffee, I wonder if Starbucks hasn’t reached this frontier - or if they simply don’t want to mess with these fiercely loyal people and their Canadian palates. Mike is looking forward to seeing old friends, going out to the Buffalo bars and drinking to keep out the cold. You won’t find a more cheerful bunch of alcoholics. It’s an ambivalent headspace that finds catharsis with these songs as we steer the Jeep west.

BOBCAYGEON The Tragically Hip





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Home Room words and images by Jamie Hurst


was catching up with my college roommate the other day. Telling her about this magazine and my dreams for it. I told her about the subject of home and how I wanted to explore it from childhood to adulthood and how your sense of home changes with you through time. We got into an interesting conversation about the coming of age moments that are so vital and happen in a short amount of time when you first leave the nest of your parents’ home.

Once we return to our hometown and our room in our parents’ house, we realize things have changed. The town moved on without us, some of my friends’ parents divorced, our childhood friends moved on to hanging out with other locals, maybe our favorite bakery closed in our absence. On top of that, your room doesn’t quite fit anymore. It seems smaller, somehow childish, even though only four short months ago you were rather comfortable there. You realize, consciously or not, that you have grown up substantially in in a short amount of time. Your old self doesn’t fit. Your parents treat you the same way they always did, not understanding that you have matured (asking you to be home at a curfew, making sure you eat your vegetables). You’ve made some mistakes along the way, maybe you ate Poptarts for breakfast four months in a row or missed a class here or there. But you are making the mistakes for yourself and trying to move past them. The struggles of young adulthood are only fully understood by your peers and you find yourself anxious to go home. You suddenly miss the posters taped to that cement wall and the late night conversations with the stranger who you now consider a soul mate. You now have two homes and realize that your sense of home moves with you. You are learning to be at home with yourself.

47 Spring 2013

“When you finally go back to your old home, you find it wasn’t the old home you missed but your childhood.” – Sam Ewing

As the weeks go by and you settle into your routine as a college kid, you don’t realize that each experience you put yourself in could very well be out of your comfort zone. Even choosing what to eat for each meal can be exhausting when you were accustomed to your mother packing your lunches and sitting down at the table for dinner. Taking care of yourself, time management, socializing, building new relationships, and dealing with the stranger living in

Most women I’ve talked to about battling homesickness as a freshman in college say that they often resort to calling their mothers. The sound of her reassuring voice soothed their souls.


For many people that experience of going away to college and living in the college dorms is your first time away from your nuclear family. It is a similar experience moving to a new city or living in your first apartment, but what makes living in the dorms more thought-provoking is that they are starkly institutional. Mine had cement walls and industrial standard carpet (over which one of my roommates and I laid new carpet to hide the stains and so as to feel comfortable walking around barefoot), and the hallways and bathrooms had the same tile my doctor’s office had. I shared my sleeping space with at least one other person, someone I’d never met before, and the bathroom space was no longer private either. One of the dorms on my college campus had 20-40 girls per floor all sharing the same 5 showers. I imagine it is similar in military barracks.

your personal space are all emotionally and mentally stimulating to the point of exhaustion. At the end of the first semester you are ready to go home, having dealt with bouts of homesickness throughout the semester.

Going Home photography by Liz Nunziato



49 Spring 2013

hen returning from a trip, after the plane lands, the train pulls into the station, or the bus finally rounds the last corner there is still one part of the journey left, and its always the longest: the car ride home. Freshening up in the restroom at airport or train station before that last voyage energizes me to push through. The car ride seems endless and as soon as I walk in the door I take off all my makeup (including that lipstick I just reapplied), then unpack my bags. With Liz Nunziato behind the camera, I was able to capture that ritual to share it with you. What do you do to prepare for the long road home?




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Spring 2013




57 Spring 2013

Spring 2013

Sestina In the early spring, heavy snow is unexpected, a silent ethereal guest on this surrendering house. The child sits crouched gnome-like by the fire, hot chocolate in her too-small fingers. Stoic, irresolute at the window her father watches blankly, sees his own father in the small flakes of wraithlike snow as it falls, as it fell into his fingers when young. He feels like a guest in this, his home, with a dull fire he made only for the unthinking child. She knows sadness, even as a child and feels it in the eyes of her father, eyes that reflect the subtle fire as the window frosts white with snow. Still sadness was a fleeting guest reaching with groping fingers into the intimate cracks that fingers should not reach. Standing, the child takes leave of her halfhearted guest, reaches and says to her father, it reminds her of something, the snow and the way the grate hugs the fire.

Time for the snow, the child will say to the smiling father, whose callused fingers build the fire as he tells her, she is never a guest here.

words by Courtney Bird

59 Spring 2013

where one has welcomed guests before and bid them sit by her fire. She will again see her father bright, one day holding the fingers of a tiny blue-eyed grandchild on the white morning of his first snow.


She will later say that the fire is home, slipping through her fingers, like the young ephemeral snow of spring. That as a child, every dinner was with her father and it’s strange to be a guest

White Reeboks words by Jamie Hurst


e always wore crisp white Reeboks with white mid-calf height athletic socks. Always in impeccable physical shape, perfectly trim, not an ounce of fat, he showed off his long sculpted legs with short khaki shorts. I remember him wearing cotton short-sleeved button-ups, sometimes a plain color, sometimes floral in pattern – for which we teased him mercilessly. He always combed his thick reddish-brown hair straight back. I think he kept the comb in his back pocket, and always a bi-fold wallet in the front.


igh Heeled Traveler Magazine is only one half of High Heeled Traveler. Check out the online blog to see where I’ve traveled, what I wore, my favorite artists and exhibitions, and discussions on wine.

Loved what you read here? Connect with High Heeled Traveler online!

/High.Heeled.Traveler @highheeldtravlr @highheeledtraveler /highheeldtravlr/

When you talked he would run his pointer finger and thumb over his trench-like laugh lines as if loosening them up preparing for a good laugh. He would start with a giggle halfway through my story - before I even built it up he was prepared to be entertained. His giggle was from his gut, almost a wheeze and a cough. As if the laugh was beginning to take over his body. Sometimes I wouldn’t finish a story because he would be bowled over laughing this profound HA! HA! HA! almost sinister, almost devious, almost a forced breath, always sincere. Sometimes he wouldn’t be able to breathe from laughing. I miss that feeling.

Call for ENTRIES

He would do little antagonistic things like push you slightly when walking or nudge the back of your knees when you were taking a picture. He would eat your food just to bother you. But sometimes he wasn’t present, his mind distant. I wondered what he thought about. Where his life had taken him. What where his regrets, pleasures, hopes? Was he thinking of them in that moment? Where did his mind go? I never asked him. In our last conversation, he said, while crying, “I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry… I love you, darlin’.” I replied, “I love you unconditionally, and always.” Three months later, we buried him in his crisp white Reeboks.

Issue two of High Heeled Traveler Magazine (to come in June 2013) will be a discussion around Robert Frost’s poem The Road Not Taken. I am interested in stories, poetry, recipes, music, original photography, and art inspired by the poem. Submissions can be made by email to Please submit poetry and stories as PDF documents and artwork or images as high-resolution TIFF files.

Mountain Interval The Road Not Taken 1920 Robert Frost (1874–1963) Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth

And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back.

Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same,

I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I— I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.

Deadline for submissions is May 1, 2013.

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Spring 2013


He would greet me as if I was the most important person in his life and his day was brighter because of my presence. He made me feel as if I was beautiful, smart, funny, accomplished, and the kindest person he’d ever known. In his hug, I could feel his strong arms come over me and hold me tight, protecting me from life, from sadness, from disappointment. I could feel his love through his laugher and his attentiveness. I was at home when I was with him.



My mom would poke his sides to get more out of him, a little dig with her pointer finger or tickle with her nails. She would dance a little bit with her feet while doing it. He would use both palms, elbows together, to defend himself, still laughing.


Profile for High Heeled Traveler

High Heeled Traveler  

A collection of short stories, poems, recipes, original art, music, and photography that explores one concept in depth with each issue.

High Heeled Traveler  

A collection of short stories, poems, recipes, original art, music, and photography that explores one concept in depth with each issue.