It has been a long time since I’ve eaten a meal this bad. I inhale it
greedily and wonder how long it took me to forget the normalcy of such
meals. This one has been a twelve-hour car drive from home, about as far as
one can drive without hitting Oregon. The others are thousands of miles
away and decades behind me now. Getting older and fleeing the Midwest has
its advantages.

At Grandma’s Kitchen in Yreka, California, though it is listed on the Lite
Menu, a “broiled” chicken breast is no doubt seared to perfection in a pan
of leftover bacon grease, and the one on my plate resembles a Slim Jim more
than it does a healthful meal. The white meat formerly known as chicken is
also as thick as the soles of my 15-year-old beloved black Via Spiga penny
loafers, a pointy-toed pair I have had repaired three times though I refuse
to admit they are a half size too small.

I let the breast soak my napkin while I survey the other delectable items
on my plate. The “freshly steamed” vegetables are doing a nosedive into the
inch and a half of “steam” at the bottom of the side dish. It’s not exactly
a side dish because it is plopped in the middle of my plate, nor is it
exactly a bowl because it is only large enough for one egg or a piece of
broccoli, cauliflower, and carrot, and, of course, ∏ cup of water. On the
plate is a cup of warm cottage cheese; it has surrounded the dish and
creeps slowly toward the edges of the plate.

I am careful not to complain because I urged my husband to eat here; I’d
walked over from our motel during breakfast and the food looked much better
than the “to go” sandwiches we had grabbed on the drive up. I walked back
to the motel and waited for Jay to come back. He was out impersonating a
grown up.

This trip is one of dozens he’s made to the next town, Montague, during and
after his dad and stepmother’s death. Unfortunately, Grandma stopped
serving breakfast at 1:00 PM. Note to self: Next time we’re in Yreka,
remember to stop for breakfast. If it’s after 1:00 PM, keep driving.

After I inhale my dunch – that lovely meal between dinner and lunch – I
look up and survey the crowd. An elderly couple sitting across from us is
staring at me. I am unsure if their dour look is due to my table manners or
my having ordered OFF the menu thereby screaming, “I am from Los Angeles!”
There was a time I would not have noticed the meal as being poorly cooked
or thought it my God given right to have al dente vegetables on command.

When I’ve convinced myself they’re just tired of looking at each other, I
remember there is a “John Kerry” button pinned to my shirt. I pull the edge
of my cardigan over it and their eyes move quickly away. Jay warned me that
wearing it in a town of ranchers was leading with my chin, but I’m feeling
feisty today.

There is a tiny store in Grandma’s Kitchen that sells things that make
Jay’s eyes itch and I spend so long in there that I actually begin running
to the table to show Jay miniature tea sets and ask his opinion on which
green glass chatchke to buy. He groans and lowers his head pretending not
to notice my third trip to the register. Before my brain convinces me that
I could actually live in a town that is one block long, I spot the praying
hands.

Around town I notice things. The gas station food store has an unusually
large liquor section. Men wear cowboy boots and drive trucks or four-wheel
drive vehicles because they need them. Women color their own hair. Though
many of them are thin, they are not on diets. The air is clean and the sky,
azure.

Mountains that surround the valley are so well defined that even the pines
on them have form and color. There is no smog and the cars and buildings
and people are so bright and clear they hurt my eyes. Everyone smokes. We
stay one day and two nights that feel like a week.

That is one way to stretch a vacation. We can’t wait to leave. The Shasta
Valley may be God’s country, but at least two of his kids were happy to
head home.