Well, the blogroll is up and typing, so I’m going to chime in with my first post.
“What’s the farthest you have traveled for food? Did you fly across teh country just so you could have the perfect bowl of clam chowder? Did you cross the state line just for a scoop of ice cream? What was it, how far did you travel, and was it worth it?”
I don’t know if I’ve ever traveled specifically for food. There’s not much that tickles my fancy that much that I can’t find nearby. I’m an opportunistic kinda girl!
That said, on my wedding day, I drove ten or twelve miles into town for Mexican food. I adore Mexican food. I worship at the altar of the burrito. It is my chowtime alpha and omega.
T? He’s not into it so much. In fact, you could say he hates Mexican food. And I feel bad asking him to eat something he hates, so we don’t go out for Mexican. Pretty much ever.
So, in my final hours as a single woman, I decided I wanted to exercise my independence and indulge in fajitas one more time. I packed up one of my bridesmaids, my matron of honor, and her husband, and we drove into town to (essentially) the closest Mexican restaurant. I ordered takeout for the four of us, my other bridesmaid, and another friend who had flown in and was helping out. Then we drove the twenty minutes or so back to the camp and pigged out.
I don’t know how I fit into my dress after that, but I didn’t care. Fajita quesadillas = ecstacy. It was fantastic.
PS: I would, however, strongly consider driving hundreds of miles for Grippos potato chips; Parkette’s chicken fingers with fries and cream gravy; and Ale-8 One. We usually avoid doing this by stocking up before we leave Kentucky, but we completely forgot. Some college friends made up for it, though, by buying a store entirely out of Ale-8 on their way back to Arkansas. The whole stock. Eighteen or twenty six-packs. I was so jealous…