There's a timeless charm to these rustic joints. One can almost hear their walls telling the secrets and tall tales left by the old regulars and the younger ones who come to town for a beer. Maybe the reason I'm so comfortable in these taverns is because that's where my grampa and daddy went when I was a little girl. Back in those days, it was customary for men to take a break from farming, go to town to the tavern, have a few beers, play cards with their buddies, and then come back home. Their wives were at home and would have a home-cooked meal waiting on the stove.
This tavern we went to last night has Friday night fried fish, with choice of baked, hash brown, or french fried potatoes, old-fashioned baked beans, and a generous and tasty help-yourself salad bar. Their deviled eggs are one of their signature foods, and I'd be curious how many eggs get boiled to satisfy their hungry crowds. The four of us ordered refreshments, sat down at a table for four, visited and had a bunch of laughs before we put in our food order. A man and woman sitting next to us commented how nice it was to see someone having fun these days.
When we were ready to leave and got out to our cars, the windshields were covered with ice. We had to wait a while for the windshield wipers and the defroster to clear them. A freezing mist was still coming down, so we took it slow on the s-curve road back home.
This morning blue skies and sunshine welcomed me downstairs. Housecleaning was done yesterday, so today hubby can watch his guy shows on t.v., and I can fiddle around with this, that, or nothing. Don't they say that weekends don't count unless you spend them doing something completely pointless?