home cooked

So Jess and I made our second annual trip to the Blue Ridge Parkway. Sad to say, we're about two weeks too late for the leaves at their colorful peak, but it was beautiful nonetheless. For two kids from Utah, it feels almost like a fairy tale to drive through the rolling hills of Virginia, red barns with spotted cows grazing as though someone didn't put them there for picture purposes.

The highlight of the trip, however, may have been our traditional stop at Cracker Barrel. Jess and I have a thing for this neighborhood restaurant (located approximately every four miles along the Interstate in NC). And it's not just the fact that you can order ginormous plates of home cooked food for decent prices. Nor is it the fact that everything is breaded and fried just right, just enough to satisfy your taste for grease, but not too much to stop your heart. I think it's more because you yourself feel home cooked. As you sit there surrounded by paraphernalia (fake or real, we haven't been able to determine - but really, are there like warehouses of vintage junk that Cracker Barrel maintains "just in case"?), you pretty much feel like your grandparents are sitting at every other table, some second cousins at the others (the ones you pretend you don't know on account of the fact that if you become too friendly, they might actually show up at your house, with their RV).

I love how people come in and say hello to their waiter as though they know him. (Because they do, and actually they saw him that morning. For breakfast.) I love that they can order without looking at the menu: "I'll take the chicken fried steak with a side of fried chicken. For my veggies, corn swimming in butter, carrots soaked in sugar, oh and a fried salad. Dressing on the side."

I can't get enough of that place. This whole NC place ain't too shabby. Have a look.