My parents have remained relatively unscathed from my blog. That is about to change.
We loaded the family up and travelled north to Amarillo for the weekend. My cousin was getting married, and we hadn’t been to see my parents for awhile.
I headed home from work and packed up the kids and the dog and loaded everything in the car. We couldn’t leave until late, so I had the kids in their pajamas and set them up with a movie in the backseat (a portable DVD player is a truly wonderful invention and blessing from God.) A quick spin through the Starbucks for a pumpkin latte, and I was good to go. A nighttime road trip used to be commonplace. All I needed was for someone to say “let’s go!”, and I grabbed the keys and off we went. Now it takes an extra-strong coffee with tons of sugar to get me two hours down the road at 10 o’clock at night.
I drove out to El Hubbo’s school to pick him up. El Hubbo had to work “security” for the high school football game – which is why we were leaving so late. I am certain that everyone feels much safer as he limps around and shouts at kids, “You stop that, or I will say stop again!” Oh, the joys of working for a small school in West Texas. When the game wrapped up and all was “secure”, we hit the highway.
We got in to Muzzy (grandma) and Oso’s (grandpa) house a couple hours later. We unstrapped the kids from their seats, and Emma didn’t even wake up as we placed her in bed. Jake came to, and realizing he had arrived at Muzzy’s started stripping clothes so he could hit the hot tub. El Hubbo demonstrated that he can still move with lightning speed when he wants to as he bee-lined it for the hot tub as well.
The morning came and with it came biscuits and gravy. (One of Muzzy’s specialties.) We laid around for a while moaning about how much we had eaten, and then decided we would go eat at the Amarillo Stockyards Café – which had received excellent coverage and reviews from Man vs Food on the Discovery Channel. Everyone was loaded into Muzzy’s car, with El Hubbo at the wheel.
First you must understand that my parents are of the fussy variety. Meaning, my mom can say the sky is blue, and dad, just to have a little fun, will tell her it is azure. They then argue about it. They are the ones giving driving instructions to El Hubbo. He is not used to their dynamic. I just sat back and watched the fun. It went something like this:
El Hubbo: “So, does anyone know where this place is?”
Oso: “You can go up here to downtown exit or you can go on up and there will be road that cuts to the right and then follow that up a ways and then turn - Hey, Dix – do you know where this place is?”
Muzzy: “Well, you can turn up ahead at the downtown exit, and it is at 103 Manhattan.”
El Hubbo: “So, take this exit?”
Oso: “Yeah, you can take this one”
Muzzy: “No! Go up ahead.”
El Hubbo: “So, this exit or the next one?”
Oso and Muzzy, “No, yes!”
I see El Hubbo grab his cap and pull it down slightly over his eyes – a sure sign that he is trying, and failing, at not getting frustrated. (Not a good thing when you are the driver.) Having much prior experience with “old people directions”, I just chuckle to myself. He takes a downtown exit, and we follow it to First Street. Oso had checked out of the conversation because there was a dog show at the convention center and several dogs were being walked outside. Much like his favorite animal, Oso is easily distracted.
With only one individual giving direction, El Hubbo relaxed a little and went where Muzzy told him. There was nothing but an empty lot next to a train track. Quickly surmising that this was not the correct location, I put the address in my google maps app on my phone, and we headed in the direction the little red dot told us to go. Muzzy made a comment about looking the address up in the phone book, and I asked why she didn’t use her fancy new phone? She then said something about being nice to old people. Jake, sweet 5 year old grandchild that he is, explained very seriously and slowly (as though talking to someone who was senile) to Muzzy that she was an elderly woman and Oso was an elderly man. The look on Muzzy’s face was priceless, and I just tried not to roar with laughter.
It is obvious that my family will go to great lengths for chicken fried steak and gravy. We pass through the neighborhood by the train tracks, where most of the drive ups you have to reach through bars on the window, and they are most likely selling more than sodas and hamburgers. We turn left at the scrap yard that looks like somewhere the mob would stash a body to be crushed up with the cars. But, up ahead we spot the stockyard!
We get out of the car, and immediately the scent of manure and grease wafts through the air. We were intent on trying this famed chicken-fry, so even the odor did not deter us. We dodged a couple semi-trucks and crossed the lot to the building.
We walk in and see that the vet office and the café were to the left. I expressed a slight concern to El Hubbo about the two offices being in such close proximity to each other, but he told me it would be fine – at least we would know the meat was fresh.
This was truly a down-home, working cowboy café. The menu consisted of beef. You could have it grilled or fried, with gravy or without. You could have your choice of potato – baked, mashed or French-fried, with gravy or without. That was about it. And it was divine. The gravy was real gravy. Many places make a decent chicken-fried steak, but then they top it with that nasty powdered gravy. Not here – this was real, true, slap-yo-mama gravy with puddles of grease floating on the top. The French fries were fresh cut and delicious. My taste buds belted out choruses of Hallelujah while my arteries sang the blues. Even Jake was impressed with the place and wielded his fork agilely when Muzzy attempted to steal a French fry. Fortunately, she is quick for an old person (excuse me, Elderly woman) and avoided having the prongs impaled on her hand.
We very much enjoyed our meal, and the general consensus was that we would highly recommend it to those of a hardy nature who would not mind crossing the tracks to the other side of town and smelling cow manure while partaking of their meal. I’m pretty sure that is a limited number of people.
Fortunately, we did not need directions to get out of the stockyards, and El Hubbo drove us all home where we spent the afternoon moaning about how much we had eaten. Until dinner time, anyway, where you will be happy to know that we refrained from eating any more gravy.
We loaded the family up and travelled north to Amarillo for the weekend. My cousin was getting married, and we hadn’t been to see my parents for awhile.
I headed home from work and packed up the kids and the dog and loaded everything in the car. We couldn’t leave until late, so I had the kids in their pajamas and set them up with a movie in the backseat (a portable DVD player is a truly wonderful invention and blessing from God.) A quick spin through the Starbucks for a pumpkin latte, and I was good to go. A nighttime road trip used to be commonplace. All I needed was for someone to say “let’s go!”, and I grabbed the keys and off we went. Now it takes an extra-strong coffee with tons of sugar to get me two hours down the road at 10 o’clock at night.
I drove out to El Hubbo’s school to pick him up. El Hubbo had to work “security” for the high school football game – which is why we were leaving so late. I am certain that everyone feels much safer as he limps around and shouts at kids, “You stop that, or I will say stop again!” Oh, the joys of working for a small school in West Texas. When the game wrapped up and all was “secure”, we hit the highway.
We got in to Muzzy (grandma) and Oso’s (grandpa) house a couple hours later. We unstrapped the kids from their seats, and Emma didn’t even wake up as we placed her in bed. Jake came to, and realizing he had arrived at Muzzy’s started stripping clothes so he could hit the hot tub. El Hubbo demonstrated that he can still move with lightning speed when he wants to as he bee-lined it for the hot tub as well.
The morning came and with it came biscuits and gravy. (One of Muzzy’s specialties.) We laid around for a while moaning about how much we had eaten, and then decided we would go eat at the Amarillo Stockyards Café – which had received excellent coverage and reviews from Man vs Food on the Discovery Channel. Everyone was loaded into Muzzy’s car, with El Hubbo at the wheel.
First you must understand that my parents are of the fussy variety. Meaning, my mom can say the sky is blue, and dad, just to have a little fun, will tell her it is azure. They then argue about it. They are the ones giving driving instructions to El Hubbo. He is not used to their dynamic. I just sat back and watched the fun. It went something like this:
El Hubbo: “So, does anyone know where this place is?”
Oso: “You can go up here to downtown exit or you can go on up and there will be road that cuts to the right and then follow that up a ways and then turn - Hey, Dix – do you know where this place is?”
Muzzy: “Well, you can turn up ahead at the downtown exit, and it is at 103 Manhattan.”
El Hubbo: “So, take this exit?”
Oso: “Yeah, you can take this one”
Muzzy: “No! Go up ahead.”
El Hubbo: “So, this exit or the next one?”
Oso and Muzzy, “No, yes!”
I see El Hubbo grab his cap and pull it down slightly over his eyes – a sure sign that he is trying, and failing, at not getting frustrated. (Not a good thing when you are the driver.) Having much prior experience with “old people directions”, I just chuckle to myself. He takes a downtown exit, and we follow it to First Street. Oso had checked out of the conversation because there was a dog show at the convention center and several dogs were being walked outside. Much like his favorite animal, Oso is easily distracted.
With only one individual giving direction, El Hubbo relaxed a little and went where Muzzy told him. There was nothing but an empty lot next to a train track. Quickly surmising that this was not the correct location, I put the address in my google maps app on my phone, and we headed in the direction the little red dot told us to go. Muzzy made a comment about looking the address up in the phone book, and I asked why she didn’t use her fancy new phone? She then said something about being nice to old people. Jake, sweet 5 year old grandchild that he is, explained very seriously and slowly (as though talking to someone who was senile) to Muzzy that she was an elderly woman and Oso was an elderly man. The look on Muzzy’s face was priceless, and I just tried not to roar with laughter.
It is obvious that my family will go to great lengths for chicken fried steak and gravy. We pass through the neighborhood by the train tracks, where most of the drive ups you have to reach through bars on the window, and they are most likely selling more than sodas and hamburgers. We turn left at the scrap yard that looks like somewhere the mob would stash a body to be crushed up with the cars. But, up ahead we spot the stockyard!
We get out of the car, and immediately the scent of manure and grease wafts through the air. We were intent on trying this famed chicken-fry, so even the odor did not deter us. We dodged a couple semi-trucks and crossed the lot to the building.
We walk in and see that the vet office and the café were to the left. I expressed a slight concern to El Hubbo about the two offices being in such close proximity to each other, but he told me it would be fine – at least we would know the meat was fresh.
This was truly a down-home, working cowboy café. The menu consisted of beef. You could have it grilled or fried, with gravy or without. You could have your choice of potato – baked, mashed or French-fried, with gravy or without. That was about it. And it was divine. The gravy was real gravy. Many places make a decent chicken-fried steak, but then they top it with that nasty powdered gravy. Not here – this was real, true, slap-yo-mama gravy with puddles of grease floating on the top. The French fries were fresh cut and delicious. My taste buds belted out choruses of Hallelujah while my arteries sang the blues. Even Jake was impressed with the place and wielded his fork agilely when Muzzy attempted to steal a French fry. Fortunately, she is quick for an old person (excuse me, Elderly woman) and avoided having the prongs impaled on her hand.
We very much enjoyed our meal, and the general consensus was that we would highly recommend it to those of a hardy nature who would not mind crossing the tracks to the other side of town and smelling cow manure while partaking of their meal. I’m pretty sure that is a limited number of people.
Fortunately, we did not need directions to get out of the stockyards, and El Hubbo drove us all home where we spent the afternoon moaning about how much we had eaten. Until dinner time, anyway, where you will be happy to know that we refrained from eating any more gravy.
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