Volume 2, Issue 20 August 14 - September 27, 2000

At the end of a winding dirt road, nestled amidst huge trees and lush ranch land, lies a hidden sea of shiny new sport utility vehicles. In its midst, almost island like, sits a semi-renovated ranch house. Inside, dark paneling abounds, and cowlicking paintings (cows have noses but lack fingers ... you get it?) are hung at every turn. Massive, cowasaurus horns offer looming reminders of the origins of our evening's fare. I am greeted by a 40-something waitress, with perfectly coiffed hair, brimming over with country hospitality. She gives me a "Hi hon, come right on in and make yourself at home." that melts away any memory of the sea of SUVs I just left behind. Suddenly the close quarters become cozy, and the tree growing through the roof in the dining room makes a strange sort of country sense.

Between the clawfoot tables and the tupperware pitchers the iced tea is served in, I'm down home at grandma's house. I think I'll kick my shoes off and sit a spell. No menus-- they tell you what's available, just like home ... howdy ma, howdy pa, what's fer supper?

A little plate of spaghetti and a bowl of pinto bean soup offered a homey leftovers vibe to my meal. Homemade salad dressing in a Lazy Susan served family style ... of course it's family style; I'm at home aren't I? A gentle pat on the shoulder and the smooth voice of my waitress saying, "Now don't you fret hun, I'll have your supper out here in a jiff." And then, magically, the most incredible fi let mignon I've ever eaten appears. After the first succulent, tender bite of grilled perfection, I realize I am at home, this is were I belong, this moment is what I've lived for. I don't even have to use a knife to cut it. It almost reaches up to meet my fork ... wait a minute what am I thinking? This is a piece of meat, in a restaurant. Nothing more. Then there's that pat again on my shoulder, the comforting voice of my waitress dripping with country sweetness, "Everything okay hun? How 'bout a little something sweet for dessert?" Ahhhh, a little something sweet ... I don't have to hurry ... I can relax ... after all, I'm safely at home, were people care.... For dessert, I'm offered the choice of homemade vanilla ice cream or homemade vanilla ice cream with hot fudge.

I wouldn't want to put my waitress to too much trouble, us being family and all. "I'll just have a little ice cream, when you have time." While enjoying my dessert, I look around the room at the other bewildered members of my dining family, some who look a bit startled, and others like myself who have the glazed eyes that only the truly self-indulged have ever known. Another pat on my shoulder and a genuine smile. "I sure hope you enjoyed your supper as much as we enjoyed havin' you, hun."

And then, magically, a slip of paper appears on the table with a number on it. A number large enough to jolt me out of my country reverie ... I'm not at home... I'm really, really not at home. The coziness becomes warm and crowded. The tree growing through the dinning room roof takes on an eerie H. R. Pufnstuff surreality. As my eyes dart from table to table, my former family members around me morph into the actual bewildered yuppie diners they truly are. The claw foot tables, the tupperware, the lack of menus, the down hominess of it all melds together ... into a deviously designed, inescapable trap! Carefully baited with an aroma that no urbanite could resist: country hospitality. Staggering back out into the sea of SUVs, with the throng of upscale diners, I stop in my tracks. Hey, wait, what of my home, my family, my ... I looked longingly back over my shoulder only to see my waitress through the window, offering a sly smile, a little wink, and a "y'all come back now, ya hear!"
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