When we’re on the road, our food options are limited to the places we can park a big truck. This includes pretty much nowhere but truck stops. We eat in the truck as much as possible, but usually end up eating out once a day. A revolving door of Subway, McDonald’s, Arby’s, Chester’s Chicken, Iron Skillet and Denny’s are the most abundant restaurants we see in truck stops. Occasionally, there will be a Wendy’s or Burger King, and What-a-Burger has truck parking at some of their places in Texas. But for the most part, we have about six choices.
(I feel the need to insert here that if there is one more Subway restaurant or Starbucks coffeehouse built on our planet, we will most definitely exceed the universal quota of silliness involving coffeehouses and sandwich shops. There are literally Starbucks opening next door to Starbucks. The emergency room at the hospital has a Subway in it. Apparently grievous injury and smelly bread are a winning combo. Silliness.)
When we’re home, I cook. I cook a lot. I never in a million years thought I could enjoy cooking and eating homemade food as much as I do. I made pork chops last night that, I swear, made the angels sing. I completely annoyed our son by spending the entire meal going on and on about how lucky and blessed we are to be able to eat like we do. I danced in my seat while I chewed, and made up little songs about pork chops. (Just ask the Ever Elusive and Sometimes Famous Max Heine how fun it is to eat dinner with me.) Anyway, the point is, it’s a rare occasion we eat out when we’re home, but when it does happen, I’m completely overwhelmed with all the options I have.
“If there is one more Subway restaurant or Starbucks coffeehouse built on our planet, we will most definitely exceed the universal quota of silliness involving coffeehouses and sandwich shops.”
We had a really busy day last week, I actually was incredibly busy in my office all day (for real, Todd [We hear you. –ed.]), and George had hung tile all day. (George is one of those guys who can do anything. He’s helping my dad with a bathroom remodel while we’re home, and working himself to death when he should be resting up.) We were both pretty tired, and I didn’t feel like cooking. The inevitable “what’s for dinner” conversation eventually came up. We went through the litany: we could have Mexican, or Italian, or Greek or Chinese. We could have cheese steaks from the Chop House, or fish from Capt. D’s. In the end, we settled on a sack of Arby’s roast beef sammiches.
I know, right?
For all my moaning about not having a lot of choices on the road, when I do have a choice, I choose something I can get on the road. I don’t know if it means I’m just a gripe, or I miss the road so much I need to taste it somehow. Good thing we only have a few days left at home — George needs some rest and I need some fried corn on the cob from Chester’s. And I cannot believe I just said that. Lord help me. And my arteries.
"Until a formal regulation is established with clear guidelines and borders ...