Stewed Apples
When you’re in the ‘hollars, best keep moving till you can get to something comforting.
I’ve felt like I’ve been stuck in the ‘hollars lately. ‘Hollar’ is Appalachian slang for ‘hollow’ which is fancier Appalachian slang for valley or low lying areas sprinkled through the high ridges that begin in North Carolina.
‘Hollars are cold, damp, and generally closed to outsiders.
You do not want to get stuck in a ‘hollar. If you live there…neato…but if it isn’t your place and you get stuck, best find a way to navigate out as soon as possible. There are valleys tucked throughout the Appalachians that are closed to outsiders. And lately I’ve felt like I’m stuck in an unwelcoming environment just like a suspended ‘hollar.
It’s cold. It’s damp. It’s generally sad and people around me are on edge. Too chilly to grow my garden staples, I’ve continued my winter routines and while it’s a strong routine built to combat my heartspace from matching the blanket of gray outside…I have found myself feeling really stuck.
I pray. I walk in the moss. I pour warmth over simple ingredients. Repeat.
A chilly May in 2022/2023/2024/2025 reminded me of road trip I took through the northern stretch of the Smokies searching for an old family property that led me through forgotten roads.
The Appalachian mountains get dark once you move from the main roads – Google maps can be quickly rendered inaccurate as the edges of National Forest lands and properties held for generations blur.
A few wrong turns on backroads that led me to parts of the Hills I know I’m not welcome – paraded with flags that note the rebel connotations, broken toilets adorned with billowing petunias, and discarded irons beds that speak to times buried in half-truths.
I got turned around – I got stuck in a ‘hollar.
“When you’re in the ‘hollars, best keep moving.”
It’s what my grandfather would always say when I would call in a panic about losing my way. His words rang through my heartspace that day as I found myself gripping my steering wheel and finding a route to the nearest ridgeline to gather my bearings.
I found a cutout on the side of the road to park my car and started my trek up the ridge – it was May and it was somehow freezing. It was weirdly overcast and from the bottom of the hollow (valley) I found myself in, I had no idea where the sun was hiding above the blanket of gray. With every step I felt the chill in my bones. I navigated over rotten logs, snaked my way up overgrown switchbacks, and finally made it to the top.
It’s the Blue Hills…so they just looked…blue? And the same? I was so cold and disoriented that it took me a moment to finally just sit and wait.
Sooner or later there would be a sunbeam.
Find the sun beam.
Determine the directions.
Get. The. Hell. Out.
It’s interesting because I embarked on a research project a few years ago that brought me back through those same roads. We were assessing the use of Google Street View to replace neighborhood assessments – our research was pre-pandemic (2018 – 2019), but timely as we advocated for stretches of rural America that hadn’t seen the Google Van since 2008. If you’re telling stories about neighborhoods in forgotten Appalachian stretches in 2019 and using 2008 photographs…as researchers, we didn’t mind telling you…you’re fucking doing it wrong. I remember looking at those roads again and feeling the shiver.
I did get out of those backroads (obviously). I found my little sunbeam and off my little Saturn drove back to campus. I needed something settling. Something warm. Something safe.
As I got to my little apartment off of downtown Dahlonega, I struggled to get warm. I turned up the rickety heat a bit and considered what I could make that would cook up while I took a hot shower.
Stewed apples!
They’re the perfect thing to make when you’re short on time to get to warmth – one pot, few ingredients, and 15-25 minutes to brew love and warmth while you take a shower, tend to some dishes, or simply rest.
My grandmother used to make them and I found my way back to the crafting of stewed apples with what I had on hand while I was in South Korea. A sweet monk led me through her process on a few chilly mornings (also in May!) when I was clearly tracing her countertops because I wanted a snack (and comfort).
It’s amazing how worlds apart can be connected through warm comforting foods. Blended gatherings of spices known to warm and flavors familiar to my heart always seem to find me no matter where I live.
The May I took a wrong turn, I knew I could gather the warmth and comfort of my grandmother and that sweet monk – they’re the elders I needed to unpack my journey through half-truth Hills.
They’re also who I’ve needed to consult to climb through this unseasonable chill of 2022/2023/2024/2025.
I know the sunbeams are coming – I know this is just a long season that has much to offer in the form of patience and earnest soul searching.
