May: Two Gravies, One Long Drive, and Coming Home

It has been a hard month.

We lost my husband’s father, a wonderful man, and made the long drive from Seattle to Utah and back. Driving, of course. Well, me driving, because I have control issues and everyone seems safer when I’m in charge of the wheel.

There were tears. There were hugs. There was family. There were old stories told again, the kind that never really get old because every person in the room carries a different piece of them.

And after the tears, the hugs, the reconnecting, and the quiet moments that sit heavy in your chest, the question eventually becomes:

What are we going to eat?

Because even in grief, especially in grief, food finds its way to the center.

Most of the trip was fueled by nostalgic cafés and road food. One place in particular was Maddox Ranch House in Perry, Utah, at the mouth of Sardine Canyon. An old-school stretchy-pants situation in the best possible way.

We loaded up on warm homemade rolls, corn pone, honey butter, and raspberry butter, all served in those wooden bowls from the 70s. Yes, those bowls. And no sooner had we eaten a few than the server brought a fresh basket.

This was not going to be a light trip. We already knew.

There were salads with homemade ranch, the kind you secretly crave. Fried chicken with gravy. Mashed potatoes with more gravy, but a different gravy, so it didn’t get redundant. Buttery cooked carrots doing their best to count as balance.

Then our waitress said, “No pressure, but for a dollar more, you can add cream pie.”

Well.

For a dollar more.

Chocolate, banana cream, coconut, raspberry cream. These had to be taken to go because I still needed breathing room for the rest of the drive.

The drive became its own little holding place. We played this-or-that in the car, partly to pass the time and partly to keep my husband’s sweet heart from sitting too long in the anticipation of everything still ahead.

Boise gave us Basque food and really good bagels. Somewhere in a tiny Oregon town, we fueled back up with affogatos and my very random road-trip music, which, if you have been in the car with me, you know.

And then we were home again.

I won’t be putting on zip pants for a few days.

But my heart is full from being with family. Broken from the loss of a wonderful man. Grateful for the stories, the meals, the warm rolls, the cream pies, the long drive, and the way food keeps showing up when words are tired.

Some memories are not tidy. They come with crumbs in the car, swollen eyes, too much ranch dressing, and a pie box tucked in for the ride.

Those are the ones that stay.

In solidarity with two gravies,

Cook out.