Because we were still sick over Christmas and then were away from home on New Year's Eve, this was a different kind of December. J and I spent Christmas Eve without a family gathering and spent New Year's Eve with J's mother, upstate. Our little group decided to try a Roadhouse Grill up there. Previously to this year, J and I had always avoided going into the New Year's crowds and had spent our New Year's celebrations at home, watching the ball descend in Times Square. We'uns is fogies.
When we saw the crowded parking lot at the Roadhouse, with cars cruising the lanes waiting for parking spaces to open up, we almost gave up. But, feeling adventurous I suppose, J dove the Camry into the cruising lanes of cars. It did look bleak until we turned a corner near the front door and there was a space waiting for us. (01 Doc might not be surprised at this event if she remembers hunting for parking spaces with me, back home.)
The wait was about 20 minutes after we went inside and sat down on the hardest bench Roadhouse could provide. Bags of peanuts provided entertainment along with a ceiling fan that rocked and clicked. One would not think an unsteady fan was entertainment except that it broke the conversational ice with other diners who were waiting for their numbers to be called.
The food was really worth the wait. We might just have ordered appetizers and quit there. Entrees followed and provided mass quantities for takeaway.
Two days after that, 01 Doc and some of her family met us at the Ole Times Country Buffet (which is not far from her home). I have not had creamed corn like that since my Aunt Carrie made it for us when we were children. And Aunt C had asked Uncle Albert bring that home-grown corn straight from their fields for her to work her magic on.
Ole Times has country cooking that takes you back. Ribs on the buffet? J was in heaven over them. The salad bar came first and I told 01 Doc to spank me if I ever looked as if I might fill up on the salad there, again.
It seems that we ate our way across the holiday season . . .