This is the final column from our longtime Nashville bureau chief, Mark Blankenship, who I’ve been lucky to call a friend and colleague since we met at The O’Neill’s National Critics Institute. I was a fellow; he was an instructor—and it’s not a stretch to say I’ve been learning from Mark ever since. I’m deeply indebted to Mark for mitigating my most skeptical takes, providing the best Broadway advice, and introducing a poultry drumstick emoji to The Food Section’s Slack channel, where he’s forever replenishing this newsletter’s requisite stock of curiosity and enthusiasm.
Nobody knows precisely what the drumstick response to a message means, but we keep clicking on it anyhow. It’s one of those good-vibe catchalls that can convey peace, compassion, gratitude, approval, or accord.
As Mark heads out to see his first play performed at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival (and continues serving as lecturer at Yale’s David Geffen School of Drama), we wish him all the drumsticks.–HR
On one of my visits to Sarabha’s Creamery last month, I didn’t even order. By the time I got to the café’s counter, the owner Gursharan “Guru” Singh had already made my usual drink—a hot masala chai—and had it waiting by the register before I could even say hello. Nothing beats learning you’re a regular.
Since I wrote about it for The Food Section back in March of 2024, I’ve gone to Sarabha’s so frequently that I refer to it as my office. I’ve written dozens of the stories there, sipping a chai or eating one of the homemade Indian-style cookies that Guru added to the menu about a year ago. On most Sundays, I’ll head over with a novel (and without my phone), so that I can spend a few hours reading. I cherish the disorientation of looking up from a book and not knowing what time it is. All I know is I’m on one of Sarabha’s overstuffed leather couches, and I probably need another beverage for the road.
But that’s not the only dining establishment that’s become a frequent part of my Nashville landscape. I’m on a first-name basis with several of the employees at a Torchy’s Tacos across the street from my home. There’s a particular outpost of Martin’s BBQ—the one on Belmont Avenue, with the metal bucket full of complimentary MoonPies—that my friend Stephanie and I walk to on beautiful days, savoring the conversation as much as the brisket. Another group of friends and I have selected a breakfast spot called The Puffy Muffin as the basecamp for our lengthy catchups. I usually need at least three mugs of their signature spiced tea before we get through all the updates, elaborate stories, and heated debates about old plays.
This reminds me that in in my very first story as The Food Section’s Nashville Bureau Chief, I fantasized how moving to this city could change me. “After such a long time running at top speed, talking fast, and working nonstop in the effort to sustain my identity as a writer and thinker, I need to slow down,” I said. “In Nashville, I want to take it one story at a time. I want to chat with interesting people, share what I’ve heard via this very publication, then leave it behind for the weekend so I can take an improv class or drive over Monteagle Mountain to see my family.”
What a joy that this prophecy came true! I did indeed take an improv class. As I write this, I am just a few days away from my latest trip over Monteagle. And most importantly, I’ve spoken to dozens of interesting folks on behalf of this publication. Over and over my theme has been the communities built through food. I’ve joined friends mourning the loss of a beloved restaurant and visited neighbors celebrating the impact of a community garden. I’ve learned how tea parties can transform a building and how international cooking can change a small town.
And I’ve made lasting relationships. After she took me on a tour of her beehives, Hanes Motsinger and I got close, and thanks to her, I met the Reverend Dr. Kate Fields, whose podcast I wrote about just last month. Every time I buy MayPop Water at a farmers market, I have a chat with the founders, and the same goes whenever I pop into Mr. Aaron’s for a bagel.
In my experience, Nashville is predisposed to this kind of camaraderie. If you reach out your hand for a friend, someone is going to grab it, and they’ll probably put a kolache in it for good measure. All you have to do is reach.
I’m grateful for the fellowship Nashville offers and in particular for how The Food Section has led me to it. I now believe there’s no better way to understand a region—its rhythms and customs and character—than by investigating how it eats.
I’ll carry that with me as I leave. Though I’ll keep Nashville as my home base, I’ve accepted opportunities to work around the world that will consistently take me out of town. That means I won’t be able to maintain my current role at The Food Section. I am certain I will contribute again, but this is my last entry as a monthly columnist.
I’m incredibly grateful to the people in Middle Tennessee who have expanded my horizons with their stories and their cooking. I’m grateful to Hanna Raskin for offering me a berth at a publication I believe in. And I’m grateful to you for reading along with me as I travel the Volunteer State. Like I said, nothing beats being a regular, and I’m honored I’ve been a regular here.
Mark needs a successor! If you’re interested in serving as The Food Section’s next Nashville correspondent—which amounts to contributing one newsletter each month in exchange for $200 and a revenue share, plus business cards and the chance to deploy poultry emoji—send me a persuasive email, including no fewer than three story ideas: raskin@thefoodsection.com
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