My ex-mother-in-law was, and probably still is, the worst cook ever in the history of cooked food. Her turkey tasted like like weathered shake shingle, she served cold corn relish (which is vile even at the height of summer, but I digress) at Thanksgiving, her raisin walnut dressing was like antique shoe leather with chunks of tooth-removing tar, and her borscht was pink milk with a pale gold, swirling slick of vegetable oil flowing to and fro on the surface.

Ghastly.

Even my ex, and my ex’s ex, for that matter, will attest to the fact that his mother’s cooking was shockingly bad, very nearly inedible.

On the three-and-a-half hour drive, I would gaze longingly at the Flying J as we passed it, imagining that even a truck stop buffet would represent a substantial improvement over what I’d been subjected to thus far.  The marquee read, “THANKSGIVING BUFFET, ONLY $5.99!” I think one year, I wept a little.

There are some things I just cannot eat, so I always left hungry. Every restaurant on the way home looked like a forbidden paradise.  This year, I might go to that Flying J and have me some road food, after all, to complete the circle.