It started out great – a beautiful trail ride in a state park I didn’t even know existed until a few months ago. We rode through a savanah with a marsh in the middle of it, saw and heard (incredibly loud!) sandhill cranes, I think, and wended our way up and down ravine-like terrain populated with huge, beautiful, old, gnarled burr oaks. The sun was shining, the dappled leaves were changing, and adult child was happy.
Next goal, winding roads, pumpkins and lunch.
We found an odd, small little farm that billed itself as a winery, mostly, but sold decent looking pumpkins and what’s called “Indian corn,” which I like to hang on my door this time of year. Pumpkins accomplished.
Winding roads of fall color? A little, and following my nose and the compass embedded in the mirror of my car, found the town with the store that has the chicken feed we needed.
But first, lunch.
A likely place, menu looked OK, even a bit sophisticated for a rural town. The place is mostly empty, which I put down to the hour of the day, not the quality of the food or service. Which was my first mistake.
So, I thought, OK, not crowded, great! Will get adult child fed and happy and be on our way in a jif.
Not.
I should know by now, through years of fall excursions, that I am particularly cursed at choosing lunch places. I always harbor hopes for some quaint out-of-the-way find, a local cafe with great soups and sandwiches and maybe some pie.
I usually end up with grey, greasy burgers and persons with whom I dare not converse lest the subject turn to politics, arrayed on torn barstools erupting with ancient, stained foam.
But this place looked much more promising. Tin ceiling, nice old bar, highboys and regular tables, tile floor, interesting historic thingamabobs all over.
Adult child was very hungry, so I thought, OK, bruschetta – how hard can that be? Essentially some toast with tomatoes, basil and a little cheese. That will be fast and take the edge off.
Ten minutes. Fifteen. Breathe. Head in hands, pulling at my hair. One waitress, only two other parties in the place.
Breathe.
Mom, are you OK?
Yes, sweetie, just trying to stay calm.
Thirty minutes, at last, the bruschetta. Ice cold. As if it had been defrosting. And coated with something that was supposed to be balsamic but looked more like chocolate sauce.
Thirty minutes for a COLD appetizer.
Breathe, head in hands, Mom, are you OK?
Yes, sweetheart, just trying to stay calm.
Thank God the burger and fries came immediately after, as if the lone inexperienced waitress figured out that I was about to lose it if my child didn’t get something edible RIGHT NOW. Adult child likes the fries, at least, but tells me the burger was fried. As in, fried in oil, or worse, butter, which adult child on the spectrum can’t stand.
My salmon salad was pretty good, but I realized it too had been fried, not broiled.
OK, whatever, we ate. I admit to myself that I have zero skill in stumbling upon the one cute “supper club” or diner in town that actually might be worth trying, where they actually might have some retro comfort thing for my child to eat (big old shake in one of those tall, heavy ice cream glasses? No whipped cream, that is even worse than butter. Mac and cheese? Too many carbs. Tomato soup! Why can’t I just find a damn bowl of tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich? In friggin’ WISCONSIN???)
So what do we learn from this? Fast food next time. Don’t even try. Go somewhere generic, cookie cutter, where you know exactly what to expect, and quit trying to make lunch any significant part of fall excursion.
On to feed store. No time for any more winding roads.
Will there be any more of October’s bright blue weather? Please?
Ah, God is great. Yes, yes there will. And the third time’s a charm.
Ridiculouswoman 