So long, Hometown

I am an Atlantan. I was born at Northside Hospital and raised in Buckhead. Early adolescence was spent between the rich greenery of the city's sunken parks--those half-block interruptions whose creeks made them useless for houses--and the consumerist banality of Lenox Mall. I walked to Oxford books and spent hours reading in the kids' playhouse. I graduated to Little Five Points and Virginia Highlands.

My first apartment was a 600-square foot shoebox a block from City Hall East on the unglamorous, ungentrified stretch of North Avenue between Peachtree and Poncey Highlands. I lived in Home Park for two years, walking to find parties, offering to trade Jack Daniels for ice cream to the ice cream man who cannily drove the streets on the long summer days, and battling it out with slum lords, one of whom had a dead, poorly-buried dog on her property when we moved in.

I went to Georgia State, and took a certain pride in the street vendors, tacky clothing shops and tables that took over Broad Street in the warmer months. Downtown seemed metropolitan, even if it was only a mini-metropolis. After school, I'd head up to Buckhead and ply my trade, convincing conventioneers to part with their expense account money for my books.

I've been to shows at the Roxie, the Tabernacle, Variety Playhouse, Smith's, Chastain and Lakewood. I favor Landmark Midtown Arts Cinema--dubbed the Little Drunken Monster by my old roommate--over the Big Purple Monster up I-85. I've played Sunday trivia at the Highlander, our go-to bar when we meet friends from the northern neighborhoods. I think Atlantic Station is a terrible disappointment and an eyesore.

I live in Inman Park, where I walk to the grocery store, the bank, the bars and the liquor store. I like Manuel's (Man-yoo-uhls, not Man-wells) for the history and the liberalism, but prefer Cafe di Sol and the Yacht Club for the atmosphere and quality of food and drinks. Fox Bros. may not be the best barbecue in the city (except that it is), but it's our local meat and two, and it's damn good. I buy groceries at Little's where I chat with Lisa and Maria about raw milk and local politics. We're even getting married in the neighborhood, where I'm sadly discovering a dearth of hotels.

I know Candler Park, East Atlanta, Kirkwood and Cabbagetown. I can tell you the boundaries for Garden Hills, Peachtree Hills, and Peachtree Heights, and the difference between East Buckhead and West Buckhead (money vs. lots of money).

I'm fond of the South, but I love Atlanta. The old truism holds that it's a great place to live, boring to visit. We don't have big landmarks or tourist attractions to draw anyone outside of the Southeast. A dozen other cities have the equivalents of the Zoo, the World of Coke, and Centennial Olympic park. The aquarium and the High are noteworthy, but not terribly unique. But for the daily activities, we have plenty of interesting and great options, usually affordable to boot.

The people are friendly and driven, and there's always someone putting together something that's worth going out for. I watched Atlanta's part-and-parcel skylines grow, and recently be rendered snaggle-toothed by the tornado.

New York and London are huge. They have everything. But when I'm there I feel like I'm in a game that's too rich for my blood; there's so much, the barrier to entry is pretty high for a mid-twenties cook who wants to retire someday. Atlanta is welcoming and modest; there are plenty of places where I can go for great food, drink, and entertainment.

I love the food here; we get fresh produce from one of the great agricultural regions in the country, and a stronger sense of place than you'll find elsewhere. We have Buford highway, with authentic Latino and Asian restaurants and markets. I can't afford the fine dining, but I know that it's a strong market.

I love the summers: the heat is so intense that it feels supernatural, and when we aren't in a drought, intense, pouring thunderstorms cut through and remind us what it's like to be cool and wet. Air conditioning wafts from open doors in the summer like perfume, and we wear sandals, shorts, sundresses and hats to keep cool; the expanse of bare skin bespeaks the easy, relaxed pace that we bring to our recreation.

I'll miss tomatoes and biscuits. I hear that they have tomatoes in England, but I'm convinced that they can't be finer than ones that I've got growing in my friends' backyard now. We've been getting our first tomatoes at Woodfire, and the farmer characteristically undersold them as "not that great." They're small, red pear-shaped ones, red round ones, tiny ones, Sungolds, and we're putting them everywhere. Summer to me is tomatoes, and summer is my favorite season. They're so intense, so uniquely tomato-ey. You can't substitute for a tomato if you ate the last one, you just have to season your food with your tears.

Biscuits were one of the first foods I learned to make, and I can smell them at a distance of 100 yards. I love the tanginess of buttermilk biscuits, the way that butter melts into them, their tenderness, and the rise they get out of what seems like so little leavening. I prefer cut buttermilk biscuits, but I still remember my grand-aunt showing me how she made "drop" biscuits in a cake pan. They mostly steamed with little crust, and they pulled apart at the dinner table. Tenderness, again, was the watchword; a biscuit's inside should yield, should lovingly accept butter, gravy or jam, while just maintaining its structural integrity. There's no buttermilk in England, and White Lily's changing its formula anyway. I think that I'll cry at least once over my missing biscuits.

I'll miss Southern accents: the drawls, the soft "t"s that sound to me like a combination of warmth and humor. I'll miss greens, barbecue and country ham, cold salads with mayonnaise dressings, did I mention biscuits? Cause I'll really miss those. I'll miss peaches so juicy that within two bites my chin is running with it, I look like an untended three-year-old and I've managed to drip juice between my toes.

It's not all bad. I won't miss living in the one liberal enclave in Georgia. I won't miss a governor who would rather go fishing than fund transit. I won't miss the good old boy network that's frustrated me for as long as I've been cognizant of politics. I like the tea, and lemon curd is delicious(it would be great on biscuits). I haven't learned how to make scones properly yet, but I'm convinced that I can. Despite Tony Bourdain's assertion that butchery is dying in England, I've come across at least one shop that looks like a good place to learn the art. The farmland is gorgeous and close to where we'll be living. Foodroutes are well-traced, even in supermarkets. And lamb. I love lamb and England has wonderful lamb.

Beer in England is a craft, and as a beer-drinker, I can't wait. There seem to be more real ales than nights to try them. I'll love my coffee being espresso again, the richness of expression in the language, and the strawberries.

I've cried a lot these past few weeks. After so many years it seems like nowhere else will ever feel like home. I hope I'm just being sentimental.