It was bound to happen. When I was a little girl, I preferred grilled cheese or a quesadilla to a chicken leg. Daddy bragged that I ate grilled cheese from Greenville, SC to Quebec to Denver, CO, to wherever else we traveled, saving him bookoos of money. To be fair, I ate plenty besides grilled cheese, but that didn't make the anecdote. Early on, I was suspicious of hamburgers and steaks, lest they were under-cooked. I didn't care for meat touching bones or fat or skin... or, let's face it -- meat. Bacon? Only if it was extra crispy. I knew my daughter would one day declare herself a vegetarian. If you live near Rutherford Road, you're bound to drive behind the chicken truck on a regular basis. It's a dirty, pitiful sight, and I'm sure many parents have detoured when seeing one of those dreaded trucks in the distance. Honestly, it takes a whole lot of compartmentalizing to get stuck behind the chicken truck then proceed to Chick-fil-A for a playdate. ...
A southern gluten-free foodie in search of a healthy life