Biscuits and Gravy at Wheatfields

I've been teaching at my current school for 14 years now, so I possess the comfort that comes with knowing the rituals, routines, and rhythms of a place. Every Thursday the cafeteria serves biscuits and gravy. When I was younger, I looked forward to my weekly biscuit and gravy fix.

Because I like to fit comfortably into my pants and because my principal frowns upon mid-morning naps, I rarely eat biscuits and gravy at school. Someday I will have a career that demands hearty breakfasts, and every morning I'll eat biscuits & gravy, hash browns, eggs, and chicken fried steak. Until then I'll try to stay away from the gravy.

For now it's a once-in-awhile treat, and when I want to treat myself to biscuits and gravy, I head to Wheatfields.


The gravy takes center stage in their version of this American classic. It's a meaty gravy that is generously seasoned with a blend of spices that gives it an addictive quality. In a future post, I will attempt to break down the spices, but I need a little time and help. It's the most elaborately seasoned gravy I've ever had.

They might be the best biscuits and gravy I've ever eaten, and that's saying a lot because I've eaten a lot of biscuits and gravy. Where have you found the best biscuits and gravy

may you have a little gravy in your day,

muddy

PS. . . I only ate a half order of biscuits and gravy, which cost me $4.09 with tax included. I've never consumed a whole order, but if I did, I imagine that I would like this.

The Bottleneck Mural

The camera is an instrument that teaches people how to see without a camera.

***Dorthea Lange

I use a simple point-and-shoot camera for this blog. I'm no photographer, and right now I have no desire to improve my photography skills.

I like taking pictures. I could easily spend an hour a day taking pictures. While I'm not a photographer, I consider myself a documenter. Someday I'm going to place a capital "D" on this title.

I'm very aware that nothing lasts, which is the main reason I'm a documenter. I'm also a documenter because I derive great joy in seeing the extraordinary in the ordinary. I like documenting stuff that brings me joy.

For this post, you'd expect some breathtaking photographs to illustrate this point, but I've got nothing. Remember, I'm not a photographer; I'm a documenter.

I snapped these pictures a year ago at a show at The Bottleneck, the legendary Lawrence, Kansas, music venue. It's dark inside The Bottleneck, so it's difficult to take good pictures. However, I didn't let this stop me from taking pictures of the following mural:

It's a very unpolished mural, and while it still might not satisfy most art lovers, I still like it. If you've ever been to The Bottleneck, you know that this is the perfect location for this mural.

I need to do more exploring and documenting of folk art like they're doing over at Deep Fried Kudzu.

trampin' a perpetual journey,
muddy

PS . . . Writing about art makes me think of the following great song by Terry Allen:

Mr. Crankypants: BBQ Beer

I think a man ought to get drunk at least twice a year just on principle, so he won't let himself get snotty about it.

~Raymond Chandler

The other day I'm kicked back reading Mr. Chandler's The Big Sleep, and muddywaters comes home from the liquor store with a wet-dream grin on his face. This worried me. When muddy visits the liquor store, he usually answers the Sirens' call of those corporate marketing bastards, and he returns with some fruit-infused beverage.

I told him to wipe that grin off his face. I explained how I survived the Great Wine Cooler Scare of the 1980's, and I don't care to revisit that estrogen ash heap. He told me that I was being a jerk and a bit sexist, so I told him to quit acting like a pussy.

Normally muddy would go upstairs to pout and read some Jane Fucking Austen, but he held his ground this time. He then started telling me that he had something that would put hair on my chest. Then he pulled this out of his bag:muddy beamed and pointed to the beer like he was Vanna Fucking White.

I mellowed and attempted to comprehend the scene playing out before me.

I like the smokey taste of BBQ brisket washed down with a Shiner Bock, one of my favorite beers. I also like Guinness, which has a smokey taste. Could it be possible that after all these years, muddy knows me better than anyone?

Rather than contemplate the possibility that muddy and I were becoming one, I grabbed a cold Shiner, The Big Sleep, and headed to my hammock. I spent the rest of the afternoon reading Mr. Chandler and thinking about girls with smiles that I could feel in my hip pocket.

I'd like to buy a vowel,
Mr. Crankypants