A hairy tradition
We have the four dens of dining-apathy to choose from if we don't want to drive for more than thirty minutes to get there. Let me see, there is the traditional eatery, named after the local couple who travelled from the far eastern corners of the world to escape persecution, and decided to set up shop here in Redneck County just to feed us. Let's call that place Uncle John's. Now, the owners mean well, and I have spent many an hour, nay, many a dollar on their cuisine, but it was time for a change. I was beginning to fret about my future battle with lung cancer if I continued to eat there frequently. (One good thing about a smokey eatery, you never had to complain about your food. You can't taste it past all the smoke.)
Across the street is the long standing Miller's. My husband won't allow me to eat there because in grade school the now, current owner, pull my hubby's pants down in front of his whole class. Except the poor bugger didn't just grab on to my honey's sweat pants, he grabbed a fistful of undies as well. Hence, the entire class of grade fivers got to see my honey's family jewels at their finest : Pre-puberty. Apparently, my honey has yet to recover from this indignity. I have offered to whip down his pants in the crowded restaurant, just to shown everyone how he has grown, and how proud we are of Mr. Pickle, but he refuses to take up my offer. I can't figure out why.
Then there is the typical small town Chinese food place. I used to take my kids to Emeralds all the time. Until I told my daughter they ran out of chicken and used mouse meat instead. I was joking. She was six. We haven't been back since they very politely asked us to leave.
So that leaves the local truck stop. Farmers, snowmobilers, travellers and even a few truckers. And for the most part, the food is edible, if somewhat over-priced. But what is a girl to do? I have exhausted my options. My hubby says I could save money and my stomach lining if I had them over to my house instead. Boys. They just don't get it. Not one of us wants to eat something home-cooked. We do it every day. We want to see our sliver of the world, gossip about whose divorcing who, whisper about someone's ass crack hanging out, and snigger over impossibly-high country hair-do's. Because we are cool. Because we can. Because we will never be one of them. (Leave us to our delusions if you please.)
We do all this and enjoy our hairy soup as well. And gas pain. And we'll do it again next week.