I once ate dinner inside what used to be someone's actual living room, turned into a small restaurant without much fuss or fanfare at all. The walls still had the…
I have a long, complicated history with airport food. Most of it involves a sad, overpriced sandwich, a price tag that makes me wince every single time, and absolutely no…
I once spent an entire afternoon in a tiny import shop outside Chicago, just reading labels I couldn't pronounce and asking the owner what everything was. I didn't buy much.…
My grandmother kept her pecan pie recipe on an index card so stained with butter you could barely make out the handwriting anymore. She never needed to read it anyway.…
My dad had a rule on road trips: we stopped for gas, not for food. Snacks came from a cooler in the trunk; full meals waited until we reached wherever…
These days I find myself thinking about the diner my own grandfather used to take me to, the one that closed years ago, and how I still sometimes catch myself…
I grew up going to church potlucks where half the parking lot was gravel, and the other half was just grass that had been mowed short enough to call a…
I have a confession: some of my favorite meals on the road have come from restaurants that barely acknowledged I'd walked in. There's a particular kind of comfort in a…
Over time, I’ve learned one thing about barbecue: if a Texan tells you it’s better than what they grew up eating, you drop whatever you’re doing and go. Texans don’t…
I once asked my grandfather how his favorite diner back home got its name, and he just shrugged and said, "Somebody probably lost a bet." I laughed it off at…
I once drove three hours out of my way to see a roadside attraction that turned out to be a single fiberglass dinosaur standing in a gravel lot. I don't…
I have a friend from Staten Island who treats pizza the way some people treat religion. She has opinions about cornmeal dusting. She has a working theory on the correct…