Faith, Folklore, and Friends

I have been to numerous restaurants who claim to have the South's best catfish.   This place nailed it. The restaurant's parking lot is bigger than the rest of the town. They don't do reservations.  No matter who you are, you have to wait on the porch until there is room for you. We were there on Thursday when the doors opened at five, and didn't have to wait but a few minutes.

I'm From Gravel Roads by Wanda Robertson I am from pea shelling and pinching pennies; from Vick's salve and Syrup of Black Draught. I am from the Tennessee hills, with its lush creek bottoms and rocky ridges, where panthers screamed, thunder shook the house, and whippoorwills lulled us to sleep. I am from corn fields and morning glories, black walnuts and hog killings, wood piles and canned vegetables, poke sallet and fresh promises. I am from big people.  I am from sharecroppers and quilters, from the scattered clans named Stricklin and Gean. I am from the weary with calloused hands and burned necks. I am from moonshiners and midwives, herbal healers and hell-fire preachers.  I am from Shall We Gather at the River and I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry . I'm from the South, from catfish and clotheslines and chasing chickens for dinner, from homemade ice cream and blackberry cobbler; from the cotton pickers, the re...