Rick Bragg
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Articles by Rick Bragg
Shining On
She had always seemed timeless, eternal, like she could have just clicked her heels together and flown away to wherever they make wondrous people like her. I don’t know. Maybe that’s what she did. I fell in love with Dolly Parton in 1967, the first time I heard her sing on The Porter Wagoner Show.
Haunting the Hallways
I cannot, with all honesty, tell you the building is haunted. I am not even sure I believe in such foolishness. I have never been to a séance or had my fortune told or worn a tinfoil hat. But if I am going to wind up in the company of a ghost, I cannot think of a better option than the one I got, who’s said to walk the corridors of old Reese Phifer Hall at The University of Alabama. About 20 years ago, I was offered a teaching job at their respected journalism school.
Why College Football Mascots Are The Real MVPs Of Game Day Original
College football does not shine in the imagination quite like it used to. It is a great and exciting game—and I love it still—but the college part of it is showing some strain. I hear about quarterbacks who refuse to play unless they get a $10 million bump in pay or transfer to Miami from Georgia so they’ll have a tonier parking space for their Lamborghini.
The Truest Fans
College football does not shine in the imagination quite like it used to. It is a great and exciting game—and I love it still—but the college part of it is showing some strain. I hear about quarterbacks who refuse to play unless they get a $10 million bump in pay or transfer to Miami from Georgia so they’ll have a tonier parking space for their Lamborghini.
There's only 1 way to eat a tomato sandwich
Rick Bragg Rick Bragg sets the record straight. Well, they finally made me mad. I don't mind when they tell me that the way I talk is adorable. I don't mind when they tell me, for the hundredth time, “That's not the way we do it up North.” I don't even mind when they say our footballteams are overrated, compared to Michigan and Notre Dame, which hasn't won a National Championship since practically the Hoover administration.
There’s Only 1 Way To Eat A Tomato Sandwich Original
Well, they finally made me mad. I don’t mind when they tell me that the way I talk is adorable. I don’t mind when they tell me, for the hundredth time, “That’s not the way we do it up North.” I don’t even mind when they say our footballteams are overrated, compared to Michigan and Notre Dame, which hasn’t won a National Championship since practically the Hoover administration. But when they start running down the tomato sandwich, that’s all I can take. It never fails.
There’s Only 1 Way To Eat A Tomato Sandwich
Burgers 6 hours ago I ranked 13 fast-food double cheeseburgers. The best was a regional favorite. Business Insider - Erin McDowell • 6h Double the patties can mean double the deliciousness, but not all fast-food double cheeseburgers are created equal. For a definitive ranking, I tried practically every double cheeseburger on the market to determine which was best in terms of taste and value.
The Majesty of Pelicans
When I was a boy, I used to dream about white sand. We lived surrounded by a million miles of red dirt. But once a year, we loaded a lime-green 1963 Chevrolet Biscayne with cousins, fried chicken, and beach balls and just drove, with the windows open to the world and gospel playing on the radio. We watched the North Alabama hills flatten into bottomland down around Montgomery and caught our breath when we saw a few scraps of Spanish moss. We knew we were close then.
Feeling Woozy
I think of my life, sometimes, as one big, cluttered, dusty antiques store. Not the upscale kind, where you might purchase a Victorian inkwell, but the more raggedy sort, where you can buy a coconut carved like a monkey’s head. My life is filled with junk and treasures—priceless, useless, and strange. Maybe it’s more like a pawnshop. Anyway, I digress. Not long ago, I was wandering around one of the tonier antiques emporiums, mostly so I could roll my eyes at the hefty price tags.
Dear Grumpy,
I grew up in the country with my hands in the dirt and believed I had a working knowledge of plants, bugs, weeds, and such. But then I started reading your column in this fine magazine and realized I was a rank amateur, a poser, a fraud. I’ve been so dismayed by seeing your acerbic instructions on what to do and what not to do that I haven’t grown so much as a sprig in close to 20 years. Even now, I am haunted by visions of uncontrollable caterpillars.
This Nearly Lost New Orleans Landmark Just Might Be The City’s Best Comeback Story
5 hours ago The new PWRcell 2 Energy Storage System from Generac has earned the prestigious 2025 GOOD DESIGN Award, recognizing the brand’s home battery products for their stand out design, functionality, and sustainability. While Generac is one of the best-known names in the backup generator business, it’s …
This Nearly Lost New Orleans Landmark Just Might Be The City’s Best Comeback Story Original
The romantics say this place has a heartbeat they can almost hear or feel, though it helps to be a little drunk at the time. It tap-taps on Bienville Street, where children dance for dollar bills with bottle caps on their feet, and pounds through the open doors on Bourbon, where a good fight is just one Jell-O shot away. It thumps in the stand-up bass at Preservation Hall and throbs in the giant diesel engines of the cargo ships as they push against the wicked current at Algiers Point.
I Will Never Eat Another Egg
The doctors tell me it’s natural to forget things at my age. I was glad to hear this, since I spent a whole day recently trying to remember my street address back when I lived in Miami in 1992. I do recall that it was under a coconut tree. And that got me to thinking about coconuts, which got me to thinking about coconut candy, which got me to thinking about chocolate-covered coconut eggs, which got me to thinking about Easter. But that’s the thing about running down a memory at my age.
The Key to the City
The romantics say this place has a heartbeat they can almost hear or feel, though it helps to be a little drunk at the time. It tap-taps on Bienville Street, where children dance for dollar bills with bottle caps on their feet, and pounds through the open doors on Bourbon, where a good fight is just one Jell-O shot away. It thumps in the stand-up bass at Preservation Hall and throbs in the giant diesel engines of the cargo ships as they push against the wicked current at Algiers Point.
The Lost Art of Meatloaf
I HAVE HELD my tongue as long as I could, but I just can’t stand it anymore. How is it that, in this region of the country that’s so utterly crammed with great chefs that there’s barely enough space for them to move around in their fashionable clogs, there’s not one decent plate of meatloaf to be had? Maybe, at one point, they remembered how. Perhaps, somewhere deep in their minds, buried under all that apathy, there’s a recipe that doesn’t bitterly disappoint. But it might be a lost art.
An Acquired Taste
I LIKED JUST about everything my mama cooked back when I was a boy. Her little kitchen on Roy Webb Road piled hot biscuits up to the moon and poured forth rivers of white milk gravy. There was always, always a pot of beans bubbling on her stove. That was what I believed true wealth to be. We banged through the screened door, wild-eyed and starving, and were fed like kings. Well, almost always. About once every week or so, it was sauerkraut-and-wienie day, and I wept. I mean it. I really cried.
Away in a Manger
I SEE THE MANGERS every few miles, scenes molded in plastic and propped in yards. Like in the tale of The Grinch, I can almost feel my shriveled heart swell and thump in my chest each time. Some things just ride easy in my mind. Christmas parades, a lifetime past, still circle there. The fact that Santa Claus had to be dragged by a tractor did not make him any less real. “Why they got to haul his sleigh on a flatbed trailer?” I asked my mother, 60 years ago.
Don’t Fumble the Turkey
FOR MOST of my life, I had nothing to do with getting ready for Thanksgiving. I would wake up on that morning to the aroma of roasting turkey, and all I had to do was present myself at the table, more or less washed, and enjoy. Just a few days before, that turkey had been an ice-hard, unappetizing lump, but by dinnertime it was golden brown, buttery perfection. I did not know all the work it took or the years and years of experience, and I did not need to.
The Dead Zone
I LOVE THOSE commercials, bankrolled by the telecommunications giants, about how far we have come in our technology. Cell phone towers rise from the pines. Satellites glide among the stars. They hire healthy-looking, neatly dressed young people to tell us that they have linked up the world to all points of itself. They show us maps to back it up. If you believe their graphics, there is not one dead spot, not a single cone of silence, in the entire United States. These people lie. I live in the country.
The Magic School Bus
I NEVER MINDED school. My brothers, Sam and Mark, hated it. So it was a struggle every morning just getting them dressed and getting their hair slicked down and their shoes tied. They really thought, year after year, that they’d somehow win this battle of wills with my mother, that one day she’d say, “Well, boys, you fought a good fight. You’ve made it to third grade. Let’s just call the whole thing off.” They should’ve known better. She took this mothering thing seriously.
My Mother’s Tomato Dream
BACK IN FEBRUARY, on one of those bitter nights when it seems to the old people like it will never get warm again, my mother had a dream about tomatoes. She was standing in her kitchen, and the counters were piled high, almost to the ceiling, with huge, dead-ripe tomatoes. The smallest was as big as a softball; the largest was the size of her head. Her niece Jeanette, her brother Jimbo’s girl, was busy peeling and canning them, moving quick, quart after quart.
Mystery Meat
I HAVE ALWAYS dreaded getting old—but not for the reasons you might think. My jump shot, once a thing of beauty (in my own mind), has failed me. I can no longer shoot…or jump, for that matter. I stopped playing softball some years back because I was afraid a line drive would end my life. My reaction time can now be measured on a sundial. My fishing days are numbered. I still like to cast a line—but it hurts to stand, and I need bifocals to bait a hook.
Snakes in the Dark
I DON’T WATCH much reality TV. I believe you can directly relate how dumb you are to the number of hours you spend seeing people behave badly on television and on the internet. I have always wondered what would happen if some alien race intercepted these shows and thought this was how humanity was. I imagine they would flee for home after just a few minutes of 90 Day Fiancé, Love After Lockup, or any of those cooking contests designed to make folks cry.
Why Fried Chicken Feeds The Soul Like No Other Southern Dish
The hospital rests atop a long, sloping hill. I’ve made the climb a thousand times to see my people here. It gets steeper every year. A gray-haired man driving a hospital jitney watched me labor up the incline and offered me a ride. “How are you?” he asked. “I am old, I am tired, and I am grouchy,” I answered. “They do go together,” he said. Inside, a queue of solemn, weary visitors moved slowly down a long hallway toward the cafeteria.
Why Fried Chicken Feeds The Soul Like No Other Southern Dish
The hospital rests atop a long, sloping hill. I’ve made the climb a thousand times to see my people here. It gets steeper every year. A gray-haired man driving a hospital jitney watched me labor up the incline and offered me a ride. “How are you?” he asked. “I am old, I am tired, and I am grouchy,” I answered. “They do go together,” he said. Inside, a queue of solemn, weary visitors moved slowly down a long hallway toward the cafeteria.
Margaret Bragg’s Fried Chicken
Rick Bragg shares his mother's beloved fried chicken recipe. By Rick Bragg Published on March 31, 2025 Photo: Victor Protasio; Food Stylist: Emily Nabors Hall; Prop Stylist: Prissy Lee Montiel Fried chicken is a deeply personal thing. Preferences are not just a matter of taste but tradition. Just ask Rick Bragg, who has spent a lifetime in the South cultivating a love story with the dish and forming his own stubborn beliefs about everything from the seasoning to how the chicken is dredged.
The Name Game
I NEVER GOT TO SEE my grandfather’s face or hear his voice. He died in 1958, the year before I was born. I have a lot of regrets about that. He was a laughing, fighting, loving, liquor-making, hammer-swinging giant, a poor man who never bowed his head to anyone. I wish I could have seen that. The main reason I hate it so much is that I didn’t receive the legacy he left to so many here in the Appalachian foothills, along the Alabama-Georgia line.
The Mystery of the Whataburger
WE DON’T HAVE a whole lot of news where I’m from. It’s not that things don’t ever happen here. Truly, they do. It’s just that most of them are small. The county scraped the road in front of the house a while back. The dust took one month to settle, but we talked about it for six. Edwards Grocery, out on State 204, now has Meow Mix in 16-pound bags. “Makes it easier to tote into the house,” my mother said. “Yep,” I replied.
The Speckled Beauty
THE CABIN’S front porch faces west. Every day at sunset—every single day—an old woman and a sick dog sat side by side and watched as the light faded. And she would sing. Life’s evening sun is sinking low A few more days and we must go To meet the deeds that we have done Where there will be no setting sun The once great and terrible dog that she had named the Speckled Beauty watched the angled rays of light through the hickory trees and dozed.
A Song in Her Heart
The photo shoot in her private studio outside Nashville seems designed to capture Dolly Parton’s Tennessee mountain heart. But a heart is a hard thing to get just right. The set, a kind of country road vibe, is carefully crafted and meticulously lit by people who know how. She is one of the most photographed performers on earth, so there are no amateurs here.
Dolly Parton Chats With Rick Bragg About Building A "Smoky Mountain Fairy Land," The Real Jolene, And The Ever-Present Song In Her Heart
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Dolly Parton Chats With Rick Bragg About Building A "Smoky Mountain Fairy Land," The Real Jolene, And The Ever-Present Song In Her Heart Original
The photo shoot in her private studio outside Nashville seems designed to capture Dolly Parton’s Tennessee mountain heart. But a heart is a hard thing to get just right. The set, a kind of country road vibe, is carefully crafted and meticulously lit by people who know how. She is one of the most photographed performers on earth, so there are no amateurs here.
Swear Tactics
I’VE ALWAYS wanted to see them light that big tree at Rockefeller Center in New York City. As a kid, I wondered if it was truly a magical moment, when all those glittering bulbs blazed to life, or if it was more like the Christmases of my childhood. I’m sure those were all magical, too, but it often seemed to require a lot of misery (and a small amount of yuletide cursing) to brighten up the darkness. I grew up surrounded by capable men and women.
Homeward Bound
ABOUT 40 years ago, I was marooned in San Marcos, Texas, on Thanksgiving. A whole carload of teenagers picked a fight with me at a Burger King. (You cannot make this up.) I acted tough enough to satisfy my self-respect. But there were a lot of them, so I fled in a rented Ford Fairmont. That vehicle was not exactly built for speed, but I eventually made it to the Holiday Inn alive, thinking to myself that at least things could only get better from there. I was young then and still believed in hope.
Dear Colonel Sanders
YES, I AM AWARE that you left this world a long, long time ago to open up one last great, glittering Kentucky Fried Chicken in the sky. I reckon the angels enjoy a three-piece dinner too. Still, I like to think of you up there in the clouds watching over us, the brokenhearted, the left behind.
Show Me the Money
I HAVE BEEN a football fan all my life. I bet you have too. When I was a kid, we drew a line in the dirt and gravel at Roy Webb School, walked off 100 yards (more or less), and drew another one. Then, till the bell rang to send us off to the hell of math class, we ran and whooped and knocked each other down in the rising dust. It was simple, and it was glorious. I was 11, maybe 12, when I intercepted a pass thrown to a bigger boy and took off sprinting the other way, running for my very life.
The Last Wave
I DIDN’T ATTEND a lot of church as a boy, so I hated to waste what little I knew. I’d bear down on the things I thought were important, like the seven deadly sins. I found myself to be guilty of most of them, except for sloth and coveting, mainly because I did not know what they meant. Then I got a little education, and it turned out that I was committing those too. But as I read through all the offenses back then, I was surprised to see that the worst of them, the most despised, was omitted.
Banned for Life
I WILL NEVER FORGET the scene in the great film O Brother, Where Art Thou? where George Clooney is forcibly ejected from a Woolworth store. The details are not important. He just did what he thought was right. The manager, who launched him through the door like a sock monkey, tells him to stay out. However, it’s not clear whether he is excluded from that shop specifically or the entire chain. I remember how some people laughed at that scene, but I did not. I almost shed a tear.
Mama Knows Best
FIRST OFF, you need to understand that my mother does not change. She will not do anything she doesn’t want to do. She will not reconsider, waver, or retreat. When she was younger, she might have had a little bit more flexibility in her character, but now that has dried up, calcified, and turned to stone. Her backbone does not bend or twist, and her head is about as hard as an English walnut. She doesn’t care what the world does. It spins around her. Time passes, but she doesn’t hitch a ride.
All Over the Map
I THINK I ALMOST got fired from my first job outside Alabama because I had a hard time finding my way around. It shouldn’t have been such a challenge. I was in Clearwater, Florida, where there are only three directions you can go in anyway. Head west, and you’ll end up with wet socks. But I managed to get lost all the time. I’d warned them that this might happen, but the editor who interviewed me said, “Pshaw, we’ll give you a good map.” “But I tend to have trouble with those,” I explained.
Rick Bragg On An Alabama Football Season Without Nick Saban Original
By Rick Bragg Published on February 23, 2024 Photo: Michael Chang / Contributor/Getty Images I heard they rolled the oaks in Auburn and drank the whole state dry in Tennessee the day Nick Saban walked away. They say Champagne corks were bouncing off the ceilings in College Station, Oxford, and Baton Rouge and that the folks in Athens broke a lot of good glassware while toasting their tomorrows.
Leaving It All on the Field
I HEARD THEY rolled the oaks in Auburn and drank the whole state dry in Tennessee the day Nick Saban walked away. They say Champagne corks were bouncing off the ceilings in College Station, Oxford, and Baton Rouge and that the folks in Athens broke a lot of good glassware while toasting their tomorrows. Throughout the South and across the national landscape of college football, fans rejoiced—or just breathed a little easier. The Dream Killer, the Gravedigger, was done.
Building a Legacy
THE FIRST TIME I saw former President Jimmy Carter, I was a young reporter in Miami in the 1990s. He was swinging a hammer in Liberty City, framing up a house for Habitat for Humanity. He always believed in things like that. “Any fool can throw up a wall,” my Uncle John used to say. “But you need a smart man to frame one.” Carter wore a tool belt like someone who had used one before. Some people just hammer aimlessly, but he got the bull’s-eye of every nail with each hit.
Treat Me Right, Santa
DEAR SANTA, it’s just me again. I wasn’t actually planning on writing you my annual letter, but then the other day, as I was sorting through some old, abandoned Christmas gifts, I thought about you. I tried on a 100%-polyester turtleneck from 1977. It was snug, and I rubbed up quite a bit of friction as I struggled to get it back off over my head. It crackled with so much static electricity that there was a loud POP as it came free.
Cold Turkey
I WRITE A LOT about turkeys. I always try to be kind and treat them with proper dignity. But many people—and you know who you are—seem to just enjoy being mean. I’m not referring to the eating of them. I am no vegetarian and am even less of one this time of year—actually more of a two-drumstick man. And I’m not a bit sorry about that. I’ve been known to eat a turkey wing while sitting in the cab of my truck, wondering if anyone would notice if I steered it with my knees.
Rick Bragg Says Don't Rake Leaves. Listen To Grumpy's Reaction
About This Episode In this week's episode of Ask Grumpy, Steve Bender, also known as Southern Living's Grumpy Gardener, talks about planting fall vegetables and herbs. Plus, Grumpy's Gripe of the Week. Question Of The Week We are about to fill our raised beds for planting fall vegetables and herbs. What soil mix should we use? Grumpy Gardener Answer: That's a good question because it's a little bit different planting in containers or raised beds than it is planting in the ground.
Rick Bragg’s Quandary: Can I Mess with My Grandma’s Secret Dressing Recipe?
We like to joke about the things we will fight over, down here, but it’s posturing, mostly. I have never seen anyone actually go bare-knuckle over the Alabama-Auburn game, though once, in New Orleans, I did see a pretty good dustup between Florida and Florida State fans on Bourbon Street. It was great. The preamble—mostly cussing and shoving—took so long I had time to get me a root beer, and a good place to lean. By the time the first punch was thrown, everybody was pretty much wore out.
Lost in a Good Book
IF YOU ARE a reader, chances are you have a certain spot. I don’t know whether there is any magic to this or if it just seems that way, but everyone I’ve ever met who really loves books has a refuge, a hidey-hole, where they learned to be that way. I guess you do too. You might even be there right this minute. The house I grew up in, my grandma’s little wood-frame home on Roy Webb Road in northeast Alabama, was always crowded.
Just Leave Them Be
I DO NOT UNDERSTAND some people’s hatred of leaves. They look so pretty on the trees in autumn with their red, gold, and orange lighting up whole mountainsides. It makes me happy, somehow, to see them start drifting off on the breeze on that first chill day. When I was a young boy, I used to imagine that they would keep on sailing forever and eventually make their way around the world.
The Sweet Home of Alabama
OXFORD HAS a better party. I am told the tailgating tents at Ole Miss are lit by chandeliers. Baton Rouge has better food—vats of gumbo thick with blue crab. That aroma mixes with the tang of 10,000 drive-through daiquiris. Fayetteville has a better mascot: a massive hog. Fans don plastic pig hats. I wish I had one. I would even wear it to church. Knoxville has a better fight song; you can play it on a banjo. Athens has better football fortune lately, with back-to-back championships.
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