Throughout the 1980s and 1990s, my grandmother ran a restaurant. It was in the middle of nowhere North Carolina, a solid 20 miles from any town of size in either direction. The exterior wasn’t much to look at, and the view was simply fields upon fields upon fields. Inside, however, was a different story. Inez’s Restaurant (simple times called for simple names, folks) was home to hand-patted hamburgers, hand-cut fries, apple turnovers, and a soft serve ice cream machine that I attempted to deplete daily while growing up. Farming was the family business, but it was Inez’s fixins that generated solid revenue regardless of the weather. My grandmother shut things down over a decade ago to focus on gardening, spiffing
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