https://www.facebook.com/143790488813979/

Southern Charm Up North: Tales of a Maine Magnolia, Stockton Springs, ME (2025)

12/21/2025

Maine Magnolia 🍃 | From the Pot to the Heart

There’s something about soup in the winter that feels like an act of faith.
You chop. You stir. You wait.
And somehow, something simple becomes enough.

Tonight it’s Tuscan kale soup—the kind that doesn’t shout, but settles in. Onion and garlic softening in olive oil. Beans doing the quiet work of making things hearty. Kale standing strong, because that’s what it does. A squeeze of lemon at the end, because even in the coldest months, brightness matters.

It’s funny how a Tuscan recipe feels right here in Maine or Mississippi. Maybe it’s the way both places understand winter—how food isn’t about flash, but about warmth and nourishment and gathering whoever happens to wander into the kitchen.

This is the soup you make when the wind is loud, the days are short, and you need something steady on the stove. Serve it with crusty bread, a drizzle of good olive oil, and the reminder that comfort doesn’t have to be complicated.

Tuscan Kale Soup (Simple & Soul-Warming)
Olive oil, onion, garlic, carrots, celery, thyme, oregano, broth, cannellini beans, Tuscan kale, lemon, salt & pepper.
Simmer. Add kale. Finish with lemon. Eat slowly.

From my Southern roots to my Maine kitchen—this one feels like home in a bowl. 🤍

Full recipe in comments!

12/21/2025

Wordle 1,645 3/6

⬜🟨⬜⬜🟨
🟨🟩⬜⬜🟩
🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩

12/20/2025

I’ve always said I’m not smart enough to work at Waffle House.

There are five guarantees in life:
Death. Taxes.
Someone acting up in the parking lot.
A cook running six grills at once without blinking.
And Waffle House being open no matter what.

Hurricane? Open.
Blizzard? Open.
End of days? Lights on. Coffee hot.

And let’s talk about those cooks - and memorizing a whole secret code system where the placement of an egg tells a story.
Egg here means this.
Hash browns there mean that.
No tickets. No notes. Just vibes, muscle memory, and pure genius.

That grill is basically NASA.
Those cooks are engineers.
And I’ll just be over here at 2:37 a.m., questioning my life choices, respectfully eating my scattered, smothered, and covered…
in absolute awe. 🧇🍳☕️

12/18/2025

Something about this time of year just makes me feel extra crafty and creative. I love those things anytime, but during the holidays the inspiration just seems to overflow.

This year I’m making ornaments - some for our own tree, and some to give to my kids so they can start their own. I love the idea of them hanging ornaments one day that already carry a story, a memory, a little piece of home.

I’ve never been a big “theme tree” person. Our tree is full of ornaments made by little hands in preschool and kindergarten, ones that are a little crooked and heavy on the glue. Mixed in are ornaments we’ve collected on adventures and trips - reminders of places we’ve been and moments we don’t want to forget.

Maybe that’s what I love most about this season. It reminds me that the best decorations aren’t perfect or trendy. They’re worn, handmade, a little mismatched, and full of stories.

Turns out, the best ornaments are the ones that already know your story. 🌲✨

12/17/2025

I’m often asked, “How can you stand the cold?”
As if it’s something to endure instead of something to love.

But the cold is part of what I love about Maine.

I love when Christmas actually feels like Christmas - snow on the ground, fireplaces going, people bundled up and moving a little slower. The cold asks you to notice things. To gather closer. To be present.

And here’s the funny part - inside that cold is a warmth you don’t find just anywhere.

A warmth in the way neighbors look out for neighbors. In the quiet, unspoken understanding that if someone needs help, you step up. Whether it’s firewood, food, a plowed driveway, or just checking in because that’s how it’s always been done.

It’s not flashy. It’s not loud.
It’s steady. Lifelong. Rooted.

The cold doesn’t harden people here - it softens them toward one another. And that kind of warmth? That’s something you carry with you long after you come inside.

Maine just feels… different.
And once you feel it, you understand why some of us never stop longing for it. ❄️🔥

12/14/2025

“Twelve drummers drumming” was never meant to be noise for noise’s sake.
It stood for the twelve foundational beliefs of the Apostles’ Creed - the steady rhythm underneath faith itself.
Not decoration.
Not performance.
A heartbeat.

Drums don’t wander.
They keep time.
They mark beginnings and endings.
They carry people forward when words fail.

I thought about that today, how much of life is held together by the things we return to again and again.
The truths we lean on when the ground feels unsteady.
The values we circle back to when everything else gets loud or confusing.

We all have a rhythm we live by, whether we name it or not.
It shows up in how we treat people when we’re tired.
How we respond when no one is watching.
What we protect.
What we refuse to surrender.

The drummers in the carol weren’t trying to impress anyone.
They were keeping the beat so no one got lost.

And maybe that’s the gift of the twelfth day - the reminder that faith, like life, isn’t about getting it perfect.
It’s about staying in rhythm.
Returning to what matters.
Listening for the steady pulse beneath the chaos.

Twelve drummers.
Twelve steady beats.
A reminder that even when the song ends, the rhythm carries on.

From my heart to yours - Merry Christmas. 🎄✨

12/13/2025

“Eleven pipers piping” originally stood for the eleven remaining Apostles -the ones who stayed after everything fell apart.
No Judas.
No perfect heroes.
Just eleven very human people who didn’t fully understand what was happening… but kept going anyway.

I think we romanticize loyalty sometimes.
We imagine it as brave speeches and dramatic moments.
But more often, loyalty looks quiet.
It looks like staying when it would be easier to leave.
It looks like continuing to believe when certainty is gone.

I thought about that today while reflecting on the people in my own life who have stayed steady - not because things were easy, but because walking away would have cost something deeper.
Not flashy.
Not loud.
Just consistent.

The pipers in the carol weren’t there to entertain.
Pipers led processions.
They set the rhythm.
They kept people moving forward when the path was uncertain.

And that feels right for the apostles who remained.
They weren’t fearless.
They were faithful enough to take the next step, then the next, then the next, even without a map.

Maybe that’s the message of Day 11:
you don’t need all the answers to keep going.
You just need the courage to stay present, to hold your ground, to keep walking even when the music changes.

Eleven pipers.
Eleven steady beats.
Eleven reminders that faithfulness isn’t loud -
it’s persistent.

12/12/2025

“Ten lords a-leaping” sounds dramatic — flashy even — but originally, it stood for the Ten Commandments.
Not rules meant to trap us, but boundaries meant to hold a society together.
A framework.
A moral floor, not a spiritual ceiling.

And I’ll be honest, when most of us hear “commandments,” we brace ourselves.
Finger-wagging.
Judgment.
Someone keeping score.

But that’s not how they were meant.

I thought about that today while watching how easily things unravel when there are no shared lines anymore.
When decency becomes optional.
When truth is flexible.
When respect depends on who you’re talking to - or what they can do for you.

The commandments weren’t about perfection.
They were about restraint.
About remembering that freedom without responsibility turns into chaos real fast.

Don’t steal.
Don’t lie.
Don’t betray.
Honor people.
Protect what matters.

Not lofty ideals - just basic human guardrails.

And maybe that’s why the song pictured them as leaping lords.
Not standing still.
Not carved in stone for decoration.
But active.
Moving.
Alive in the way we choose to live.

Because values don’t matter if they stay theoretical.
They only matter when they show up in hard conversations, inconvenient choices, and moments when no one is watching.

So on Day 10, I’m not thinking about commandments as ancient rules -
I’m thinking about them as reminders:
to pause before we cross a line,
to choose integrity over impulse,
to live in a way that doesn’t leave wreckage behind us.

Ten lords.
Ten boundaries.
Ten chances, every day, to leap toward something better instead of stumbling into something easier.

12/11/2025

Most folks don’t know this, but “nine ladies dancing” wasn’t originally about dancing at all.
It stood for the Nine Fruits of the Spirit - love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control.
Nine ways we’re supposed to show up in the world.
Nine ways we fall short.
Nine ways we keep trying anyway.

And I thought about those nine “fruits” today while watching someone I love move through a really hard moment.
Not with perfection- not even close - but with something steady underneath.
A quiet love.
A soft patience.
A little gentleness she didn’t even know she had left.

It wasn’t graceful like a dance…
but maybe that’s exactly what made it beautiful.

Because the truth is, living out those nine fruits isn’t some big dramatic gesture.
It’s the tiny choices we make all day long:
biting your tongue instead of lashing out,
waiting a beat before reacting,
reaching for compassion even when anger would be easier,
showing up for someone even when you’re tired,
choosing peace when the world is loud and ugly.

None of it looks like ballroom dancing.
It looks like real life.
It looks like the people we want to be, trying to come through the people we currently are.

So on this ninth day of Christmas, I’m thinking about those nine “ladies” - not twirling in gowns, but walking around in the mess with the rest of us, reminding us that grace isn’t a performance.
It’s a practice.

And every time we offer even one of those fruits - even imperfectly -
that counts as a dance.

12/10/2025

“Eight maids a-milking” has always made me laugh a little.
Not because of the milking, but because it reminds me how much of life depends on people just showing up and doing the work - the early, unglamorous, necessary work nobody ever writes a song about.

It made me think of something simple I watched the other morning.
Someone I love - tired, annoyed, not in the mood - still got up and handled the day anyway.
Coffee made.
Dog fed.
Phone calls returned.
Life tended to, piece by piece.
Not gracefully, not joyfully… just faithfully.

And it hit me that most of the strength in our lives looks exactly like that.
It’s not dramatic.
It’s not inspirational-quote pretty.
It’s the steady “I’ll do it because it needs doing,” even on the days when your heart is somewhere else entirely.

That’s who the maids always were in the carol:
the ones who kept things moving when the rest of the world was celebrating.
The ones doing the jobs that don’t get applause.
The ones whose work makes everyone else’s life possible.

If I’m honest, I see pieces of myself in that - and probably you do too.
Most of us are carrying more than we say, tending things no one notices, holding together worlds no one sees fully.

So on Day 8, here’s to the quiet workers.
The everyday do-ers.
The people who keep showing up, even when the showing up is the hardest part.

No sparkle.
No magic.
Just real life.
And sometimes that’s the most sacred thing of all.

12/09/2025

Swans have always carried a quiet kind of magic.
In old stories, they symbolized transformation - the grace to shift, to grow, to become something new without losing who you are.
Seven swans, seven changes, seven gentle reminders that life keeps moving… and so do we.

I was thinking about that this morning when I stepped outside and the air had that deep winter stillness - the kind that feels like a held breath.
Somewhere in the distance, over the trees, I heard the soft whoosh of wings.
A familiar sound.
And in my mind, I could see it clearly: a single swan gliding across a quiet stretch of water, choosing the open part even when the edges have frozen solid.
There’s a bravery in that kind of ease - a choosing of what’s possible, not what’s closed off.

And I realized something:
transformation almost never feels dramatic when you’re inside it.
It feels subtle.
Slow.
Like noticing you’re softer in one place and stronger in another.
Like realizing you’ve stopped apologizing for things that never needed an apology.
Like catching yourself hoping again.

Swans don’t force anything.
They simply move toward what’s open.
Maybe that’s the lesson of Day 7:
you don’t have to know the whole path, just find the place that isn’t frozen and slip into it.

Seven swans.
Seven quiet shifts.
Seven reminders that becoming is a slow, sacred unfolding… and we’re allowed to take our time.

Southern Charm Up North: Tales of a Maine Magnolia

12/21/2025

12/21/2025

12/20/2025

12/18/2025

12/17/2025

12/14/2025

12/13/2025

12/12/2025

12/11/2025

12/10/2025

12/09/2025

Address

Telephone

Website

Alerts

Shortcuts

Share

Category