DISCLAIMER: I am about to shamelessly promote a friend’s blog.

One of my most fabulous friends is Ruby Falls. Ruby is a Midwestern refugee – Wisconsin. She is also a rock-n-roll mom to three amazing young’uns, ages 13, 3, and <1 year. She is a retired lawyer who fronts a band (with her hubby RR), cooks and bakes like a trojan, battles an autoimmune disease, organizes and stages protests, completes home improvement projects involving power tools, plumbing, and electricity, has flames tattooed on her back (literally), and lives life wide open at full speed.

I miss Ruby daily. Luckily, I can get my Ruby fix through her blog GuitarPicksandApronStrings. She is brutally honest about her life and delightfully helpful by sharing awesome recipes and how-to advice. She also has taken up iPhone photography and I feel that she is taking it to a new level on Roadside Attractions.

I have learned a lot from Ruby. Maybe you will too. If not, you will at least be entertained and amazed at what one little Appalachian housewife can do.

I have to give her credit, I have never heard this one before. So, I was humored and the humor cut the annoyance. Annoyed? Why would I be annoyed?

One thing that the Midwest has in common with my Mountain South is that there are a lot of married people. Lots. In small towns or conservative, Bible-belt cultures people get married as though it is a race to a ring. It is like one of those lady bug kitchen timers starts the day after high school (or college) graduation and the race is on. Then once folks get married they become gravely concerned about the non-marrieds. Worried that if that lady bug kitchen timer buzzes that their unmarried friends and loved ones will be stuck in the land of “oh, s/he is __ years old and never married, what is wrong with him/her?” Because if you are not married by some magic age in your thirties “there must be something wrong”, right? People have actually said this to me.

The sweet lady who assured me that my pot has a lid was just being kind. Naturally, she assumed that I must be distressed because I am 34 (gasp) and never married. It is odd that when certain groups people ask you if you are married and you say no, they immediately go into sympathy/reassurance mode. They will tell you “that is okay”, “there is one out there for you”, “you are still young”, “you have plenty of time”, and/or “really (looking shocked)” amongst others. They will say all of these things without taking a moment to consider or even ask how you might feel about being single, free, happy, and independent. They just go straight to “oh no”, as though someone died.

I had kind of hoped that this was something that was very Southern or very small town. But it is also very Midwestern and very mid-sized town as well. This I-must-get-married-culture creates at least three unpleasant results (1) it breeds inappropriate and annoying questions and gratuitous comments, (2) everyone knows the perfect person for you (even if they are not), and (3) all the men are either gay or married (I say this at least three times a week).

I and many others are prepared to live happily now and forever without a lid. Is that what I dreamed about as a little girl? No, it was not, but neither was getting married at 20. But I also never dreamed that I would find an exciting and fulfilling career that has little to do with my law degree, walk the Great Wall of China, dine with a President and a Prime Minister, author a textbook chapter, or become a blogger. So, if I stumble across a dude that I like enough to marry I will be happy about that too. Aren’t we to be content in whatever state we are in? (Philippines 4:11). I am.

Life is pretty and God is good, all the time. But people are still nosy and weird about marriage. This is one thing that I wish the Midwest did not share with the South.

I wonder if these two got married?

Now imagine not just one Southern mother in a room but several.  Then imagine that they are all related.  Then add in their husbands, children, and grandchildren.  This is like a festival of sayings, slang, and general entertainment.

I was recently home for an extended visit due to the death of my beloved Auntie O. In the South when death occurs many visits and countless food deliveries follow. Luckily, my family loves to eat and there are plenty of us to do it. I have 13 first cousins ranging in age from 6 to 58, 14 second cousins, and 5 third cousins with one on the way.  These are just the cousins in my immediately family – on my father’s side they go on forever. In fact, there is one holler in town where I am related to everyone in it.  These 33 cousins are just the beginning. And, I know that this is not the proper legal designation for cousins – no need for some smart wills and estates lawyers to correct me here.  Of all those family members at least 29 were present at this sad occasion. In one house. Amongst the crowd were three lawyers, three physicians assistants, three nurses, five teachers, two ultrasound technicians, a speech language pathologist, nurse practitioner, a pilot, and a “hell of an engineer” as my Daddy says.

Below are some random the comments that I overheard throughout one evening (please note that there is no way for me to put all these into context).  This will give you a taste of a close Southern family in all its glory.  Enjoy!

“I reckon we can tie a chain to it an pull it out?”

“That was the time we got that VW Beetle stuck in Bath County during the snow storm, that is what they are talking about.”

“We lived at the good end of the bottom, on the other side of the restaurant.”

“What is that (referring to a cousin’s tattoo)?”

“Donald slept in the Rambler that whole summer.”

“You were a happy baby, you just did not sleep.”

“Am I related to all these people?”

“Which one is your Dad?”

“Are you all still talking about the dogs?”

“Don’t give away my pickled beets.”

“Does he [vegetarian cousin] know that those green beans were made with fatback?”

“No, but I can’t wait to tell him.”

“She knew how to boss.”

“She hid the chicken and dumplings.”

“She made me give her a dip . . . the color drained out of her face . . . then she was laid out on the front porch throwing up.”

“This is no place for someone with a headache.”

“I can’t tell you I love you enough.”

“I can’t listen enough.”

It appears that I am to my new Midwestern friends what kryptonite is to Superman. If you meet me and we become buddies, then you may have to move.

One of my mostly irrational fears when moving away from the comfort of my I-know-everyone-community was that I would struggle to meet people. The reason that this fear was only mostly irrational is because when I left home the first time to go to college I did experience difficulty making friends. Looking back that was mostly due to a not-so-awesome dude and a very East Coast culture on campus (sorry, but it is true).  I do not do well in places were people intentionally look at the ground so as not to have to speak to people they do not know in passing on the street. Of course when I went to law school and started working I had no problems making friends, acquaintances, and Cosmic Sisters. But because I am human and fear is evil my mind went straight back to 1997 (when it could have safely stopped at 2003).

Luckily, I have met a lot of lovely people in the Midwest. I have a super crew of friends who love me at church, the people at work are awesome (seriously, awesome is not an exaggeration), and I have made some great go-to friends.  Go-to friends are the ones that you can call when you are in a bind and need no-judgment assistance, when you just need to hang out, those that will go see that movie with you that no one else will see, or those you can sit with and be quiet and it is not weird.

I have been lucky to have reliable go-to friends at every stage and place in my life. In college there was  Hipster Mom and CC both of whom practically saved my life on several occasions.  CC and I spent hours together just reading magazines, playing backgammon, and watching TV and Hipster Mom and I kept the roads hot between our towns. In law school, JF, World Traveler and the Cowboy were key, whether I needed a study partner, dinner mate, karaoke, or an ear to listen these folks were available. I regret that the Cowboy and I are now out of touch, but I bet if I called him today we’d pick right back up where we left off (his wonderful wife is quite the lucky one). During my law practice and my return home, it was the Cosmic Sisters that were there daily for everything, including drama with old and new boyfriends and other friends, weddings, births, divorces, job crises, funny money, illnesses, raising babies, fears, adventures, good food, good music, and lots of love. Because I am blessed richly they continue to the this daily, just from a distance. Daisy, Ruby, Sunshine, Hipster Mom, and JF are not replaceable. These folks are still on 4:00 a.m. call duty.

My Midwest crew is Globetrotter, AKA, CLW, the Runner, the Art Instigator (hard-working, overly energetic, little man who gives great hugs and sometimes will force you to hold his hands), Working Mom (super smart Godly woman with a great husband and 3 hilarious kids), and The Brady Bunch (family of 8 from church that I cherish). I continue to have a life filled with great people who apparently find my weirdness charming.

My first FW go-to friend was Globetrotter. You know her if you regularly read this blog. She is up for tomato festivals, new restaurants, and hanging out. We were like beans and cornbread . . . for a while. Sadly, though, she had to move on professionally and now she lives in Columbus, Ohio. I meet her, she moves. However, she assures me that this is just another opportunity for me to come and explore more of the Midwest. Looks like I am going to Columbus . . . .

Go-to friend number two – AKA, the friend formerly known as Redcoat (remember I changed his name, I have that kind of power). AKA is always good for a fun evening of hanging out, movie watching, teasing each other incessantly about nearly everything (even though he is secretly very sweet , oops did I tell that? Sorry), and/or eating (this was mainly me, but he patiently endured my need to eat out at random places). He had to move on as well. At this announcement, I began to worry that I was prompting these moves – make friends with Southern Girl and you will need to leave town. Of course, he enjoyed encouraging my nonsense by insisting that he and Globetrotter were really just relocating within FW to try to escape me and that one day I will run into them on the street resulting in some awkward moments of trying to explain the situation. He makes me laugh in his absence. Truthfully, he had to return to The Empire. The INS is not pretty.

My Mommy assures me that this moving has nothing to do with me.  As I get older I realize she has been right about a lot of things.  So I am sticking with Mom on this one.

The not so subtle message here is that CLW, the Art Instigator, Working Mom, Runner, and the Brady Bunch cannot move.  I need you folks. You are my go-to people. Have mercy!

Friends are fabulous. I wish the best kind for everyone.

The Queen is one girl who is in it with me for the long haul!

One amazing thing about the Midwest are the sunrises and sunsets. They are beautiful, no matter the season. The sky is so wide and open that during a sunrise you get shade after shade of reds, pinks, and oranges, depending on the day and weather.  The Queen and I get to see sunrises regularly (we walk at 6:00 a.m.), particularly the beginning of the sunrise when all you can see is the pink and orange glow peaking over the horizon in a wide seemingly never-ending band.

The sunsets are lovely for many of the same reasons.  My favorite part of a Midwestern sunset is looking straight up or to the east. If there are clouds in the sky they appear to be glowing as if someone is shining a black light on them as they sit on an iridescent blue background.  It is something.

If I were a betting girl, I would bet that many Midwesterners never knew that their sunrises and sunsets were special.  We all know that sunrises on the East Coast and sunsets on the West Coast and Gulf of Mexico are cool because the sun appears and disappears over the ocean.

But in the Midwest you can see the sun’s tiniest sliver as soon as it starts to rise in the east over cornfields, farms houses, silos, and tree lines.  You can watch that same little sliver disappear as it descends in the west when it sets, also over cornfields, farm houses, silos, and tree lines.

In the mountains it is not the same. You can see the sun come up but it is already high above the mountain tops when it first comes into view.  In the Midwest the sun comes up and seems to be at your level, as if you could walk into it if you walked far enough. In the mountains the sphere of the sun disappears long before it actually sets because the mountains are so tall – thus the saying that in the mountains the sun goes down at “three in the day” – daylight remains but the sun itself bids an early farewell.

In the Midwest during a full moon, seeing the moon appear in the east at eye level is startling if you are not expecting it or have never seen it in that way. I was driving across an overpass in FW and saw something out of the corner of my eye and looked over and was physically taken aback at the size and location of the moon. Admittedly, I felt kind of silly but, hey, it is not like that from whence I come. Luckily, after the shock wore off I recognized the pretty when I saw it.

I regret that I have yet to take a picture of a great Midwest sunset. But God willing I will have plenty more chances to find one.

My Auntie O, pictured above with my Daddy, was a master of Southern speak. She left us last week but her words, humor, love, and moxie will always live in our hearts. She was unique, a pistol, and a hell of a strong lady. So, as you can imagine she had a lot to say. When I was a child, in addition to being extremely active and talkative, I was very attached to my Mommy. Auntie O used to babysit me and after I asked “where is Mommy” for the one hundredth time she would sweetly respond “she went to s*@t and the hogs ate her” and laugh. She also loved to tell us about the weather . . . it was often “as cold as a witch’s tit”. She still makes me laugh.

My Grandmommy, who was very close to Auntie O at the end of her life, had a few good ones as well. You knew better than to wear too much lipstick to Grandmommy’s house . . . you were likely to hear “your mouth looks like a turkey’s butt in pokeberry season.” Not a compliment. She was also a fan of “you can wish in one hand and psssst in the other and see which fills up first.” Grandmommy was not one for cursing so she elected to use sound for peeing, thus the “pssst”. God bless her.

Of course the three ladies above have and had plenty more sayings, but those are a few of my favorites.

Sadly, I have not heard any intriguing, never heard before Midwestern sayings. So, instead of a compare and contrast what follows is a list of (Southern) things that Midwesterners do not say.

Appalachian

Okay, Midwesterners do say Appalachian. They just say it wrong. It is pronounced App-a-LATCH-uh not App-a-LAY-sha. If you go to Appalachia please do as we do and say it correctly or you will immediately be identified as a foreigner. Not good.

Holler

A hollow or valley between to mountains or hills. Yes, I guess we should say hollow, but we do not and no one is going to start now. I say this all the time. Why? Because I lived near the head of the holler for 20 years. In fact, I did not know that  this was supposed to be hollow until I was in my late teens. When I say it now, in FW, it is met with grins and adoring (or judging) giggles. I prefer to think that the giggles are adoring, it saves me the worry. Recently I was telling a colleague about the diploma frames that my Uncle P (Auntie O’s husband) made for me. He cut the walnut tree down, sawmilled the wood, and built the frames himself from a tree in the holler where I was raised. I think it is a great and touching story but, of course, my colleague was totally derailed by my use of “holler”. I do it without even knowing it. In the west they call them canyons and no one laughs at them?

Buggy

The contraptions at the grocery store that are pushed around to hold your items. Midwesterners insist on calling these shopping carts exclusively. If you say buggy in the Midwest they immediately assume that you are talking about an Amish horse and wagon. When I am at the grocery store I push a buggy.

Hiddy

Hi, form of the greeting hello. I get funny looks all the time for this one. I am not sure why but when I see people on the street I have always smiled and said “hiddy”, not hi, not hello, occasionally good morning or good evening, but most often hiddy. I guess it was all that Hee Haw that I watched with my Grandmommy as a child. Luckily, in Indiana, after they look at you funny they do say hello.

Duck on a June bug and/or Ugly on a Monkey

A saying used to describe when something is all over something else.  See also, white on rice. I have to explain this one when I use it. As it turns out, Midwesterners do not know that ducks love june bugs or that monkeys are ugly.

Toboggan

A hat. In the Midwest this means some sort of sled. In the South it is a hat. I really confuse people with this one. Imagine, I say putting on the hat, “how does this toboggan look?” The person with me says, “what? Oh, you mean how does that sock hat look.” I am not sure how we Southerners came up with this one but I won’t give it up because saying sock hat instead of toboggan is just going to get me mocked at home.

Plum

Totally; completely; to the extreme. I might say that after a workout that “I am plum exhausted” or “plum tired” or “plum spent”.  Okay, fine, I would likely not say “spent”. Regardless, when I say plum I am not always talking about the fruit.

Kindly

A little bit. My Grandmommy used to say “I am kindly tired”. This translates to “I am a little tired.” It has nothing to do with being nice.

Katy Bar the Door

Something bad is coming so lock the place up or get prepared. This is a favorite of my life long next door neighbor B. She is one of the funniest ladies ever and she has more original sayings than anyone I know. I love to hear her use this phrase. Imagine your little sister telling your daddy that her “sister dropped mama’s Waterford crystal bowl and it shattered.” He might respond by saying, “well, katy bar the door, mama’s gonna be angry”.

I am sure that the Midwest is full of its own charming little sayings and special words. I hope to learn a few. In the meantime, though, I plan to continue to wave the banner of Southern speak all over Indiana. It is pretty!

Bleak: “An area of land lacking vegetation and exposed to the elements.”

Bleak accurately describes the Midwest in the winter. It is gray. Sometimes for days. The fields of corn, wheat, and soy are dead. The wind is relentless. Mountains block a lot of wind and as we have established heretofore there are no mountains here. The snow falls but is not permitted to lay romantically on the trees due to the intensity and consistency of the wind. The temperature is either bitterly cold or fluctuating wildly from day to night. Growing an affection for hats, scarves, and gloves is necessary. Static cling has become a near constant issue. Winter footwear is limited almost exclusively to flats and boots. Attached garages are priceless.

So, I understand how folks, like my friend The Statesman, can say that the Midwest gets all of the weather and none of the pretty. Nevertheless, I am undeterred in my commitment to showing you that it is pretty here, even when it is bleak. I remain positive in the face of the most unpleasant weather that I have experienced.

This is my favorite tree on Route 114. I drive this state road on a regular basis and have watched this tree go from lovely and green to lonely and bare. The tree sits right on the border of a soy field (on the right) and a corn field (on the left). This old fellow is as pretty now in the cold foggy winter as it was in a bright sunny day in July.

I spotted this charming scene near Roanoke, Indiana when I first arrived. I admired its peaceful and simple beauty, the curved lane, the tree-lined stream, and the two bridges. I do not know what is at the end of this lane but I imagine it is something lovely. Something warm, comforting, and old. Maybe an old farmhouse with a barn and silo? The stone bridge in the foreground appears to be hand-laid and weathered by water, wind, and time. But despite the weathering it will last forever because someone made it carefully with their hands. This is the perfect example of flat being pretty.

I shall continue to collect evidence of attractive bleakness to share. It is important for me to remember it is pretty and to prove The Statesman wrong.

I was recently on a flight from FW to San Francisco.  It was a quick trip and I was traveling out alone (this is due to “involuntary denial” of a seat to my colleague – traveling on United is like a course in Delta appreciation).  I sat down in my seat and began to read. I love to chat.  So when I travel I am always secretly hopeful that some interesting person (or super handsome and witty single man) will sit next to me. I never turn down a chance to make a fast friend.  I shared some stories many posts ago about some of my favorite fast friends.

In preparation to depart FW, my seat mate came down the aisle and plopped his worn out travel bag in the seat next to me.  His scraggly leather bag strap simultaneously smacked my arm.  He then whipped out a hard back version of some John Grisham book.  My first thought – ugh, great, a lawyer.  I am a lawyer but that does not mean that I want to spend an hour of my life sitting with the kind of lawyer that smacks his new neighbor with his luggage.  And I don’t read John Grisham books.  In fact, on this trip I was reading The Center Cannot Hold by Elyn R. Saks, an autobiography about schizophrenia (loaned to me by a colleague at work).  Great book.

As you might imagine, I was not expecting any pleasant conversation or entertainment on this leg of my journey.  I was thankful it is a short hop from FW to Chicago.  That is until he opened his mouth.

Bill the banker is from Greensboro, North Carolina.  His mama was from Bristol, Tennessee (my old stomping grounds) and he sounded like home.  He told me that he was traveling on business and was going to get home a day early and surprise his youngest daughter and how he carries her down the stairs every morning to breakfast.  Precious.  I could have sat there and listened to Bill talk for hours.  The Carolinians do not have that twang that I have but they have a drawn out way of speaking that makes me want to hug them.  He also sounded just like a dear friend of mine from law school who lives in South Carolina.  He also remarked on my Southerness when the flight attendant asked me to turn off my phone and I responded “yes, sir” out of politeness, not snarkiness.  No one in the Midwest really appreciates the formality that Southerners love.  But Bill did.  Oh, how happy I was to spend an hour with Bill to remind me of home. It was lovely, especially at a time when I would love to be at home but cannot.  Bill was one of those sweet little blessings that you never see coming.

Same trip, same day, different leg.  Those of you that travel will not be shocked to know that I was delayed in Chicago.  An hour.  Then we boarded only to find that there was no overhead space for roller bags. This is not shocking considering United allows two-thirds of the passengers board in some “special” class before they call zone 1. So upon making my way all the way back to row 37 I was told by the flight attendant to turn around and go back to the front . . . really?  Needless to say the 50 people trying to get on the plane as 50 of us were trying to get off the plane to check our bags made for a lot of unhappiness.  Fortunately, for me, I met John.  John, unlike me, was sitting in First Class.  He was lounging in his reclining seat watching his private TV when I asked, as sweetly as possible, if I could try to get my bag into his overhead compartment (he had his own).  He told me that others had tried but sure, why not.  He clearly does not know me.  I got the bag in there and we talked, I smiled a lot, and he seemed entertained.  Thank you, John.  Oh, and you should know, I love the name John (seriously) I have never met a man named John that I did not like/love.

So having avoided the disaster that checking my bag would have been (I had a very important meeting the next day that I desperately needed a suit for so checking the bag was not an option) I made it back to my seat.  Got comfortable and started tormenting my neighbor with chatter. He clearly did not want to talk.  So, it was fortuitous for him that we quickly discovered that I was in the wrong seat.  One row off.  I move again, disturbing 3 people in the process and letting my new neighbor know that I wanted my window seat. In fact, insisting upon having my window seat.  I can’t sleep in any other seat and it was an evening flight.  So, I hurry and get settled in again.

My new neighbor, I never got his name, is a psychologist from Portland, Oregon who had woken up that morning in the South of France.  Since his wake up he had taken a three-hour train ride to Paris, flown standby from Paris to Chicago, and was on my flight from Chicago to San Francisco, also on standby.  He had not slept in a long time.  I now felt guilty about insisting on having my window, but he assured me that he does not sleep on planes.  Poor guy.  But he was in France looking for a rental house for his family.  He and his wife are taking their two young children to live in France for a year.  Why?  Because they can and they think it will be a fun family adventure.  I just hit the “interesting” jackpot.  My new friend’s mother was French, so he and his children have dual citizenship.  His father in law is a retired pilot with United, which is why he can fly standby.  Fun and interesting people.  After four hours of watching me sleep he was still pleasant and kind.  He hopped off our flight in hopes of catching a flight to Portland that left in 40 minutes after we deplaned.  I hope he made it.

The thing about the Southern accent is that people do not seem shocked when I launch into a conversation with them. Sometimes I do not even say hello, I just start talking.  I do it because I am interested in them, in the interaction, in what I can learn from them, or to comfort or entertain me while I travel.  It is amazing the things that someone with a Southern accent can get away with saying aloud. It is something like a super power. This is also entertaining.

On this trip my new fast friends gave me comfort, perspective, and interesting conversation.  Those things are most certainly on the week’s gratitude list.

Talk to someone, you might learn something, or, even better, receive a blessing.

Here are scenes from my 32 hours in San Francisco.

We had an amazing five course dinner at Fleur de Lys in Nob Hill, Hubert Keller's temple of fine dining.

When I thought about what I would miss I thought only about the fun, happy things.  Times like birthdays, my nieces’ band recitals and dances, niece-night sleep overs, family get-togethers, and the like.  I am a very family focused person.  When I lived in my hometown I ate dinner with my parents several times a week, saw my aunts and cousins regularly, and was actively involved with my nieces’ daily activities.  My immediate family is a package-deal, you get one of us and you get all seven.  We would get together regularly to cook, eat, and visit.  We don’t just love each other, we like each other.  A lot.

I do miss those times and events.  It is hard to be somewhere else, alone, while your family is together having fun or just enjoying the day.  Luckily, my family sends me texts, pictures, and emails so that I can feel as close as possible to what I am missing.

What is surprising is that I feel more upset and sad about missing the sad and hard times than I do about  missing all those happy times.  Unfortunately, the year of our Lord two thousand twelve has not been very kind to my family.  We have suffered personal, professional, and family loss. This all in the first three weeks of the year.

The first week of the year brought the loss of my grandfather in Tacoma, Washington.  My first response was feeling sad and hurt because I was not in Virginia with my Mommy when it happened. The second week my family lost a friend and a family member had a professional change.  My first reaction was I want to come home, I want to be with my parents. My precious Auntie O, my father’s oldest sibling, is very ill. I spent the first twenty years of my life in the same house and from the yard of that house you can see my Auntie O’s house.  I spent many days at her kitchen table, rummaging through her refrigerator, or playing in her yard.  She was more like a grandparent than an aunt.  As her illness progresses all I can think about is me not being there.  I know that there is nothing that I could do if I were there.  I know that she doesn’t want a lot of company.  I know that I have shared with her the things I feel about her.  But at the end of the day, making a rational choice to stay where I am is the hardest decision to make.  Emotions are not right or wrong, but they are not always rational.

To be at home for the fun times is productive – I can participate, help, or even improve those times.  However, the bad times will not be changed by my presence.  Those times will still be bad.  My presence might be nice, but chances are it will just be harder for others and worse for me. Yet, I still want to be there.  I suppose that if I were there I would feel more in control of the situation, even though controlling such situations (health, death, or other people) is impossible.

When I was younger and lived away from home everyone was healthy, jobs were good, and I was within striking distance of home at all times.  This is my first experience of missing the hard times because I chose to leave home.  Yes, you hear a touch of guilt.  It is hard.  I do not regret leaving.  I am right where I believe God wants me to be – I love my job, I enjoy the fun I am having, and I like where I live.  But the reality of distance is a challenge.

You can send a picture of a beautiful little girl about to go to her first dance or the big fish my Daddy caught and share the joy, the love, and the fun. You cannot, however, share feelings of loss over the phone or in a picture.  The feeling of being with your loved ones when the pain and hurt of loss comes along cannot be shared over the telephone or in a picture.  I love my family and want to feel those things with them.  I want to be there when they hurt, are sad, or when things are hard.

Distance from pain is heartbreaking.

I am not a pizza snob. I know them and they care about crusts, toppings, the degree of browning, and such. Me? Not so much. I recognize that not all pizza is created equal but I am open to all of it without judgement – thick, thin, deep dish, whatever.  Well, not all of it, I still will not eat that rectangular shaped pizza they serve in school cafeterias. You know the kind. I would not eat that when I was in elementary school and I shall not eat it now.  However, among the commercially popular pizzas I have no favorite. Papa John’s or Pizza Hut is fine by me.  They are kind of all the same. This may be because I grew up in a place where Pizza Hut was the primary option.

Despite my indifference to pizzerias and humble pizza beginnings, I have found a pizza place in the neighborhood that is not in the same category with John’s or the Hut – 800 Degree Wood Fired Pizza. 800 Degrees makes its fabulousness in a wood fired oven between 800 and 1100 degrees. This is similar to how it is done at the Hawkins Family Farm in the summer. In addition to creating a tasty crust it means it is done super fast!

800 Degrees markets that “our dough is hand-made daily using Italian pizza flour and allowed to rise slowly in order to produce the maximum flavor. We use only the finest ingredients for our toppings, including San Marzano tomatoes, local produce, and free range pork and chicken from Gunthorp Farms in Lagrange, IN. Our meats and vegetables are roasted daily in-house and our sausage is made from scratch by our skilled staff. This extra effort ensures you will receive the very best product possible.” It is quality, it is local, it is good.

Oh, and for those inclined 800 Degrees has an interesting craft beer selection and an open kitchen so you can watch the cooks sling dough. Although, the space is small, so on a weekend it can get tight and you may have to wait a few minutes.

Several months ago I had the pleasure of dining at 800 Degrees by myself and enjoyed a margherita pizza. It was great and provided a wonderful breakfast the next day as I traveled through the Atlanta airport. Have Ziploc will travel.

I have been thinking about that pizza a lot lately. So, I recruited AKA, my friend formerly known here as Redcoat (I reserve the right to change people’s names without good reason or notice - it is my blog), to join me for my second visit. In honor of AKA’s vegetarian lifestyle we went all veg on our choices.  I had the Funghi, which was covered in tomato sauce, fontina cheese, fire roasted shitake, crimini, and oyster mushrooms with garlic and thyme.  AKA had the Verdure, a pie with white sauce, mozzarella cheese, roasted red peppers, zucchini, mushrooms, red onion, grape tomatoes, fennel, goat cheese, and basil. Pizzas come only in one size – approximately 8 slices. Both pizzas were super tasty and made excellent next day meals and snacks (cold or hot). AKA was kind enough to leave his leftovers behind. What a gentleman.

Even though I am not a pizza snob, I feel confident that even the snootiest pizza lover will enjoy what 800 Degrees is offering. It is good and pretty.  Enjoy!