I don’t know Julie Holcombe personally. She lives in Pennsylvania and I live in Georgia, so our paths have never crossed. But based on what I read about her in the newspaper recently, I’m pretty sure she’s got my vote locked up for Mother of the Year.

I’m not particularly superstitious, so I wasn’t too worried when the calendar turned to Friday the 13th last week.

I come from a long line of fried chicken lovers. My mother, and her mother before her, could fry chicken better than anyone include the Colonel.

I was actually early getting to Dahlonega for my afternoon news writing class, and I hadn’t eaten lunch yet, so I made a spur-of-the-moment decision to stop at the Waffle House.

I am fortunate that I don’t often suffer from insomnia. I’m usually able to fall right asleep and I generally sleep through the night, the occasional middle-of-the-night visit to the bathroom notwithstanding.

My mother probably won’t like today’s column. She was always big on my brother and me not playing with our food.

As difficult as it is to believe, some hard-working Americans actually file their income tax returns weeks ahead of the dreaded April 15 deadline.

I hate dieting. Dieting means I have to stop eating a lot of foods that I really like, and I don’t want to do that. I like to eat good food. But I really have no other choice. I’m, quite, literally getting too big for my britches.