Sometimes, when I have plenty of time to think, I start making wishes.  Not the negative kind of wishing, where all a person does is pine away for something that wouldn’t be good for them.  Really, I think the right kind of wishing is a good thing. 

I usually do this wishing in sort of a conversation with myself, although it has involved others if we’re all just sitting around, shooting the breeze.  My conversation with myself goes something like this. 

“If I could go eat out at the place of my choosing this evening, where would it be?”  There are no holds barred with that question.  It’s a deal where expenses would be paid, and you would be transported at warp speed to the restaurant of your choice and back home again in time to tuck yourself in for night.  Of course, you are thinking that someone my age going down this track is also partially senile.  And, of course, you may be partially justified in your thought process. 

The answer to that question, for me, has been interesting.  For quite some time I would have been back to India in a heartbeat, driving up on the sidewalk beside the only good two miles of four lane road for miles around. I’d get out of the vehicle and walk back down the way we had come, maybe some 500 feet, because there is no parking nearby, and enter the courtyard of a little building complex.  I’d walk downhill on the pavers that have grass growing through the cracks here and there, to the building straightaway from the entrance I had come into.  I’d enter the door and would be greeted by the waitress and be seated near the door.  I would have to ask Bryce to order for me, as I don’t speak the language.  I’d order an orange pop, because that is probably all they have for pop, and more than likely it would be warm.  Then I’d order their fried chili potato strips.  I’d probably be tempted to make a meal out of these, and if they are as spicy as the last time, I’d probably be too smoked and sweated up by the time I was done with them to order anything else.  But, just for the taste of it, I’d order chicken tikka masala.  I’d eat a little and then the waitress would offer to ‘package’ my food to take home.  My drink would never be empty, nor would my plate never loose it’s bounty, because as was then, so now, the waitress would come ask what I needed, even if I had accidentally, only momentarily glanced her way.

Closer home, I’d slip over to Ardmore Oklahoma and find my way to a little joint we happened in on one afternoon.  Catfish Corral.  Their fish was incredible, and their hushpuppies were mysteriously good.  I left there with the roof of my mouth scorched, either because I couldn’t control myself and ate too fast, or else because the food was too hot.  After that, I’d stop by the convenience store just down the street to get what I say is about the best candy bar made.  Wrapped in red plastic, and if you get the King size, you get 4 neat little bars.  Silky smooth dark chocolate with creamy coconut couched inside, just waiting to give you the burst of flavor it always does.  I’d eat two of those neat little bars, and then I’d do like I normally have to do, sneak the other two inside once I get home, and hide them way in the back of the fridge, lest the daughter who lives at this house find them and immediately make them disappear.  But the real reason for stopping at that convenience store would be to see if my singing friend still worked there.  As I stepped in the first time, I heard the most wonderful singing, in voice so clear and beautiful.  I found its source in a colored man who worked behind the counter and told him how much I enjoyed his voice and singing.  He was singing Gospel, by the way.  He told me he had spent a number of years in the pen and had found out singing helped get him through the dreary days.  “Now, I just sing for de Lawd, an try to point de way out to others.  Ain’t never going back to jail.  Learned myself a lesson dere.”   

But lately, I’ve been hankering to visit a little joint somewhere east of Pickensville, Alabama.  I have no clue what the name of it is, and I wonder if it is still in business.  We were on our way home from Huntsville, the way I recall, when my brother-in-law Galen mentioned knowing of this place.  I was looking for some big sign and a place with vehicles crowded around, since I was a bit unacquainted with southern style cooking yet at that point. 

We dropped off the little two lane we were on, to an even lesser traveled two lane road and headed north, the way it seemed to me.  And for the next few miles, we passed nary a sign about restaurants, and not much more of civilization.  We rolled up to a little cabin style building, with rough sawn walls, both inside and out, and were welcomed in and seated in a side room to the main building.  And then it happened.  The food started getting plopped on our table, and the smell and taste were something I have yet to find again.  I do believe it was there I first tried what has become a staple to any barbeque for me, fried okra.  Red and white plastic checkered tablecloths, paper towel rolls here and there for napkins as we needed, and the smokiest, juiciest, best tasting meat I have ever eaten.  Of course, the saying is, “The older I get, the better it was,” but I don’t think my memory is playing jokes on me tonight.  That’s where I’d be if I had my wish tonight. 

I could name other places, definitely.  But I’ll spare you the agony. 

Oh, and one more, I wish you a good night, free of indigestion from the meal you just had.