Cornbread and Buttermilk, a Southern Puppy story.

Send us Fan Mail 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 do...

Send us Fan Mail 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 kn...

Send us Fan Mail 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 sn...

Send us Fan Mail “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’...

Send us Fan Mail 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 m...

Send us Fan Mail 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...

Send us Fan Mail 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 lo...

Send us Fan Mail 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...

Send us Fan Mail 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 was...

Send us Fan Mail 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 ora...

Send us Fan Mail 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 streng...

Send us Fan Mail 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...

Send us Fan Mail 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 w...

Send us Fan Mail 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 an...

Send us Fan Mail “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 t...

Send us Fan Mail 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 reviv...

Send us Fan Mail 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 c...

Send us Fan Mail 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 histor...

Send us Fan Mail “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...

Send us Fan Mail 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 202...

Send us Fan Mail There’s something about a hardbound cookbook that feels like it was meant to outlive you  It doesn’t blink or chirp or scroll—it just sits there, waiting for your hands and your hunger. This week on Cornbread & Buttermilk, we open the pages of Cook’s Illustrated 2024, a quiet masterpiece wrapped in a bow and gifted with love—from Baby Greg to Buttermilk, on a day when the cand...

Send us Fan Mail There are places where the ocean isn’t just water, but memory — long, blue, and endless. Bermuda is like that. A stone in the Atlantic, not large, not loud, but full of stories. The kind of place where the past doesn’t lie still, it shifts with the tide. And so we went — Cornbread and Buttermilk — looking not for escape, but for a kind of remembering. Our suite overlooked the sea...

Send us Fan Mail The sun’s dipped low now, casting that long Southern light where everything—every weed, every wild bloom—seems touched by gold. And as we close this chapter of Cornbread & Buttermilk, our hands may still be clean, but our hearts are dusted with the rich earth of intention. Martha gave us the steps—the calendars, the cuttings, the clean lines and garden gates. But it’s the land...

Send us Fan Mail Now, sugar, I been tellin’ folks for years—you don’t get skin like Buttermilk’s from no fancy jar on a department store shelf. No ma’am. That glow don’t come from a bottle; it’s simmered low and slow in a cast iron pot, stirred up with love, laughter, and the kind of greens that whisper to your cells like a gospel choir on Sunday mornin’. ‘Course, Buttermilk’s got her lil’ rituals...

Send us Fan Mail Now back in the day, folks didn’t need no fancy scores posted on the wall. Mama could take one look at a kitchen and tell you quicker than a June bug on a porch light if it was fit to eat from. She used to say, ‘If the kitchen ain’t clean, the food can’t be trusted, and that’s the Lord’s honest truth.’ These days, the health department does that job for us. They start every restau...