When The Husband and I take our annual fast jaunt across Texas, we aim to do things we don’t often ordinarily do.
For instance, we don’t really eat out, and we really don’t do the burgers-and-fries thing. (We make almost all of our meals nearly from scratch.) So, it’s a thrill to be able to break up a long drive with a meal at a lively, busy restaurant in a small Texas town— a moment like this one helps me recall bucolic nights with my grandparents in their small town, grabbing a bite to eat at a local burger joint. (Speaking of people who didn’t eat out much— my grandparents grew most of their fruits and vegetables, and even put up canning every year.)
Here’s what you cannot see— the high school football booster club was having their meeting in a booth just inside those doors; thunderstorms boomed in the distance; locals called in their orders from home, and drove up just outside of the frame of this shot to pick up supper.
It felt good to wait in our car for our food— we weren’t in any hurry. We rolled the windows down because the night air wore that heavy perfume that holds the promise of rain.
