Comfort Food + the New Normal

Food has always been a source of comfort for me. Not necessarily in the sense of when I'm sad/have feelings I eat a lot (though I fully admit I'll grab a piece of chocolate to sate those emotions), but more along the lines of associating food with a sense of comfort; of happiness or unhappiness.

When I'm happy, I eat. I eat good food. Quality ingredients. Local restaurants. Award-winning chefs. Go out of my way to find incredible things to put on my tastebuds. The typical foodie shit.

When I'm — I hesitate to use the word depressed, because I have never been diagnosed with depression, and I don't want to negate the serious implications associated with this battle so let's go with — less-than-happy, I still eat. But I eat food that's not "good." It's usually fast food. It's usually me being lazy. It's usually me fighting this overwhelming sense of "I'm not good enough." I can't explain this feeling. I can't control it, but I got very good at hiding it. And for a good, long while, I got very good at hiding it from myself.

I would wait up late at night at eat pizza or chicken fingers or a QPWC or (my personal favorite) a take-out Philly cheesesteak when J got home, sometimes as late as 1 a.m. I would wake up the next morning and lay in bed, fighting the urge to get up, wondering what was so wrong with me that x-part of my life was such a failure. My small business failed. My job was a shambles. My life was a shambles. But I had a constant. I had to be the strong one, because though I do not have clinical depression, I was deeply, deeply in love with someone who fought mental battles I could never imagine; only do my best to be there for him. I thought I was sure that things would be OK. If we could only get over this hurdle. That obstacle. Fight another battle of one of us having these awful feelings that we could do nothing right.

We couldn't. I'd like to think we tried our damndest, in our own ways. But sometimes things aren't what they seem.

Getting there.

As a suddenly single 28-year-old, I had a choice to make. J made the one that was right for him, and though it took me a couple months to realize it, I think the choice he made was the right one for both of us. There was a new normal to get the hang of.

During the past few months, I changed my eating habits and how I was living my life, and the happiness level has upped itself. Slowly but surely, I'm able to be at a weight I am beyond happy over and still treat myself to good food that makes me happy, eaten alongside people that make me feel the same way.

I met new people. I dance a lot. I'm not 100 percent back to being my sassy sexy self, but I'm getting there. And if you're reading this, you probably know what role you play in that. So thanks a ton, humans; y'all da real MVPs. I've had to get used to a new normal. And as much as it sucked when it began, now I'm excited about the future. It's still terrifying, of course, as any change is for me. But again, we're getting there.

One of the ways I'm healing is making new memories with my comfort food. Those places J and I went together as two people who we thought would one day get married ... now they're places I am slowly reintroducing into my life with different people. One of these days I'll write about North River Tavern (probably the onion rings, to be completely honest; they're SO GOOD). But today I'm going to give y'all a little snippet of Sandy Springs Diner.

This is a place J and I went together. We went with his parents (they found it, so shout-out to them for this one!). We went with Daddy after he and I ran our 5K last September. And today, it's a place I can go with family or friends and still love it just as much.

And by "it," I mean the French dip sandwich. Like holy crap.

Having grown up in the South where our idea of a diner is WaHo, I can't say I have much experience in the realm of diners. Note to self: write about The Majestic and The Grill. But I have it on good authority from J's parents that this is precisely what a diner should be like. It's not much to speak of, atmosphere-wise, with burgundy (my least favorite color next to beige) as the main hue in the decor, but the food man. The food.

In the unfortunate off-chance you are unfamiliar with French dips, they are a hoagie roll stuffed with cheese and thinly-sliced beef served with a side of au jus to dip in. In the extra unfortunate chance you are unfamiliar with the French dip served at Sandy Springs Diner ... y'all just come on up and I'll treat you to one. Seriously. This is not a joke. I need more human interaction and more of this sandwich in my life.

The French dip at Sandy Springs Diner

The dip at Sandy Springs has three key components that make it stand out: the thinly sliced tender roast beef; the perfectly toasted hoagie roll (crispy just on the crust and fresh-baked soft on the inside); and the dipping sauce. Au jus, by the way, is the fancy French way of saying "meat-flavored oil to dip a sandwich into." This au jus is au yeah. The bread soaks it up, the meat soaks it up, so each bite melts in your mouth.

It's the second-best French dip sandwich I've ever had. The first is at a restaurant in Aiken, South Carolina, and honestly the main reason that one gets top spot is because of the fries. At this particular restaurant, or at least the last time I ate there (it's been at least a decade, whoops) the fries were divine. That perfect middle ground between McDonald's and potato wedges (at Sandy Springs Diner, the fries are more akin to potato wedges).

But I can get over the whole fry thing in honor of having this French dip within walking distance of my house, especially now that I am able to walk there to make new memories with different people. I heard once from a wise woman named Elle Woods that walking is the type of exercise that gives you endorphins.

Endorphins make you happy. And determined women who are happy with a bellyful of this sandwich don't want to kill people. So really, this French dip is a service to humanity. You're welcome, world.

Crazy Uncle Sandwiches

I knew from an early age I was destined to be a Georgia Bulldog. Though I didn't have a clue that I would graduate not as a veterinarian, but as an agriculture and science journalist, I knew the blood in my veins ran red and black, and the deep guttural "WOOF WOOF WOOF" rose naturally from my vocal cords.

It should surprise no one that one of my random, earliest memories on campus as a Baby Bulldog had to do with food. We were on a bus tour, driving through North Campus (that's the part that gets on all the University of Georgia postcards, with the magnolia trees and lots of green grass, and also the Arch) and the bus migrated downtown. A kid on the bus got really excited as we careened down Broad Street: "Uncle Otto's! That place is supposed to be so good! I can't believe it's here!"

I'd never heard of this place before. From the outside, it looked like any other restaurant crammed into historical building space — but I'll never forget the logo: some crazy dude's face. Knowing that this complete stranger highly recommended it to everyone on this packed tour bus, I made my Nanny come with me for my maiden voyage that year ... and spent the next three regularly patronizing this crazy Uncle Otto's.

Uncle Otto's specialized in a version of these European-style sandwiches called "kebap," which are a combination of Greek gyro and American sandwiches. If you're a native Athenian, or just frequent the Classic City, you probably know Uncle Otto's as the forerunner to today's KEBA Sandwiches, a franchise restaurant churning out those same delicious kebap that I first ate 10 years ago. 

A lamb kebap and Belgian fries from KEBA
Sandwiches in Athens, Georgia

I hadn't been to KEBA in several years, but jumped at the chance to slide a lunch break into my schedule this week while in Athens. It was just as good as I remembered.

You're offered three choices: sandwich, wrap or salad. For the true kebap experience, you're going to want to get the sandwich. Forget the whole healthy, no-carb crap. Just treat yo'self and indulge in this bread, because it's what makes KEBA stand out. It's shaped similarly to a pita pocket, but tastes sooo much better. Think of an unsweetened, thick waffle, and that's exactly what the bread is. It's even griddled. 

The stuffing choices include meat options (or if you're not me, falafel or feta), a selection of vegetable toppings and a sauce. I got lamb topped with lettuce and banana peppers (and would've added black olives if the restaurant hadn't been out). Sandwich sauce was roasted red pepper; for no particular reason other than it sounded good. 

There's just something about a perfectly cooked bread: slightly crisp on the outside, but super-fluffy inside, that makes eating a sandwich a mouthwatering experience. I'm unsure if the lamb is still spit-cooked like it used to be (or is at a lot of traditional European places), but it still tasted good. Lamb can either go real tough or real soft, and this was right in the middle. Enough chewiness to give it a mouthfeel, but it wasn't like you were eating shoe leather. The red pepper sauce was a good addition, too. It soaked right into the bread, and what didn't get absorbed dripped all over my fingers. 

Being a true Southern lady, I licked all that right off. Napkins are for squares, yo.

And because you can't come to KEBA and not get the thick-cut Belgian-style French fries, I couldn't resist the temptation to order a combo. I highly recommend getting the creamy feta dipping sauce for these. There's also a light creamy feta sauce if you are on one of those diet things. 

I sat on the patio with my friend Peter, alternately discussing his chemistry research and how much life can change in the blink of an eye, devouring the entire meal. I'm pretty sure this is the first time I've eaten more than Pete in a meal setting.

That's how much I missed this place. The name may have changed over the years, but the KEBA kebap is a true Classic City classic.

I'd Tap(as) That

Once upon a time (approximately until five years ago), I thought the fancy French word "hors d'oeuvres" was pronounced "whores due vors" and therefore was a synonym of "or dervs." Knowing this about myself, it was with great trepidation I accepted a dinner invitation to a locale with an entire menu dedicated to the Spanish version of "whores due vors."

Thankfully, having once almost added a Spanish minor to my two college degrees, I already knew how to pronounced "tapas" and didn't have to embarrass myself in front of the wait staff. And in case you don't know how to say it, repeat after me: "top ahs." Not "tap ass." Just a general FYI on that.

Tapas are the tiny dish of choice at Barcelona, an Atlanta-area wine bar with two locations, one in the Inman Park neighborhood and another one on the Westside, near my best friend Kayla's home. I'd been stuck in the city all day for work, and when that happens, what better way to wind out the day (read: avoid rush hour traffic) than meeting up for a choice bev and bites? After getting lowkey ditched for a whiskey mandate with Kayla's husband, Kayla convinced me to come with her to this place and have an impromptu girls' night.

Now, let me pause to tell y'all a story about the difference in my and Kayla's tastebuds. It is no secret I am going to order the most off-the-wall meat-related thing on the menu. Kayla once came close to tears because the Sigma Alpha national sorority put mayonnaise on her sandwich in a boxed lunch. I say this because it's an indication that Barcelona offers small and shareable plates for the picky eater and the experimental diner alike. But you should probably not bring your kids.

Tapas are an interesting thing because there are a couple different ways to order them. You can each order one or two and share them, or you can order one or two each and eat those as your meal (and swap bites or something). With the portion sizes at Barcelona, I definitely recommend ordering at least two if you're hungry. I finished both of my dishes and was sufficiently full, but not stuffed, and the richness of my selections made for a satisfied stomach.

Tapas are also the way to go if you're me and are therefore one of the most indecisive eaters on the face of the planet. I'm really good at narrowing my choices down to a top two or three, and then it comes to crunch time and the poor waiter is still waiting on me to make a final call. But with tapas, I know I'm going to get two things, so it's perfect. No pressure!

Though the menu has a great variety of appetizer-size options, I ordered the grilled calf's liver with pearl onions, as well as the roasted bone marrow.

The liver and onions arrived first, and were pretty remarkable. Not that I've actually cooked it myself, but after eating it other places, I find liver can get tough pretty easily. This at Barcelona was well-done in terms of texture and flavor, and the recipe is based on that of famed Basque chef Gerald Hirigoyen. His native cooking traditions come from northern Spain, and though I'm not sure of the nuances of what makes the Yankee Spaniards' cuisine differ from the southerners', I can tell you he did wonders with this recipe. The liver had that expected iron-y flavor, but had a light, meaty glaze on top and a delicate smokiness imparted from the grill. I also appreciated that it was cut in chunks instead of slices (probably a note that helped the liver not get overcooked). I feel the onions fell short, however. Where the liver was cooked to excellency, the pearls could've used a few more minutes. I prefer pearl onions so cooked they melt in your mouth, and these were still nice and crunchy.

The real star of the meal though was the bone marrow. Also something I've had before (at the fabulous Spence restaurant, RIP) ... but holy cannoli Batman. This was the creme de la creme — or, since we swapped from French terms to Spanish earlier in this post, lo mejor — of bone marrow. Y'all ... I ate this meal like, two weeks ago and I can still remember how perfect this bone marrow tasted. Heavenly days.

In consistency, bone marrow is easiest compared to meat jelly. Like, I know that sounds unappetizing. But trust me on this one. It's not gelatinous, necessarily, so imagine a lighter, sponge-y textured substance (Yoplait Whips? Maybe?) that spreads easily across the rustic grilled bread it's served with. You scoop a small amount of the buttery, luscious marrow on top of a bit of bread, then layer it with the pepperoncini relish (which is equal parts salty, tangy and spicy) and you've got a mouthful of texture and flavor like none other. Foodgasmic, honestly. Sitting here writing about it I would so go back. Like right now. Immediately. So if you're in the vicinity, get in your car at your earliest convenience and pit stop.

OH! And I forgot to mention, this place is insanely affordable. The only reason my meal was more than $20 was because I got a drink. Which means ...

Boozy Bonus >> I have no idea what the name of this cocktail is, but it's what I got, and it's so tasty. The drink has Four Roses bourbon, maple syrup, lemon juice, lavender bitters and cardamom. I couldn't taste any lavender (which is cool by me, because flowers aren't my favorite thing to eat), but I love how the syrup and cardamom brought out a delicious cinnamon- and vanilla-y quality to the bourbon. The lemon juice added brightness, perfect to spruce up a cocktail that otherwise may have been more suited to fall. Major points to Barcelona for also serving this with one of those ginormous pieces of ice — greater surface area means it melts slower so your drink is less likely to get watered down — something I hope all spirit programs get behind if they haven't already.

Kayla also recommends the sangria, but be forewarned: the red sangria looked more purple than crimson while we were there, and the white sangria has St. Germaine + wine, so imbibe at your own risk. Both were excellent and went quickly.

Suffice to say, we'll be tapping those tapas again sooner rather than later. There's a slew of cheeses I want to try, plus the top-recommended octopus (pulpo) ... and you can order an entire pig's head for the table. I'm so down for that.

Not Too Chicken to Write a Cheesy Post

Before I delve into the latest fast-food novelty item, let me apologize for first showing up with the fullest of intentions of writing on a regular basis and then proceeding to disappear again. Suffice to say that some things happened that resulted in a significant loss of interesting places to eat. Flash forward a couple months. It's not the classiest of locales, but it's unusual, and I'm all about living life to its fullest and trying all the weird these days.

Remember a couple years ago, when I first started pretending people cared about what food I ate? Yeah, you know. That time I went to T-Bell for free breakfast. This venture wasn't free, but here we are. It's May 12. One day after the fine Mexican-inspired establishment we know as Taco Bell (and my parents sometimes confusedly refer to as "Del Taco") debuted its latest and greatest menu item.

Yes, my friends.

Naked. Chicken. Chips.

Now, are they chicken nuggets? Or are they chips? At which point does a chicken nugget cease to become a piece of fried chicken and transform into a piece of fried breading known as a chip? These were dire questions that begged answers. The Meatetarian had to know what exactly a Naked Chicken Chip was and what sort of mysticism was involved in its creation.

So to Taco Bell I drug my neighbor tonight. Last night I had a mandate so I missed the opening night of these suckers; and does it really count as dragging when your neighbor's favorite food is a Baja Blast?

There are several options for the Naked Chicken Chips. There's a six-pack. A 12-pack. And a Naked Chicken Chips Box that comes with a six-pack of chixchips (am I the first one to shorthand that? I should probably copyright this), a hard or soft taco AND some sort of burrito PLUS a medium drink. Being economical, and also knowing that I can easily turn that into three meals because despite my love of fast food I don't actually pig out on it, it was a no-brainer to get the box.

On first glance, it's obvious these are way too thick to be considered chips. Like basically they're glorified nacho-shaped chicken nuggets. The verdict on whether these are something you should order or not then comes from how good they taste ... not so much on how novel a food item they are. Hashtag not-a-cronut.

The breading is pleasantly crispy. Nice and salty, as one would expect from a fast-food establishment where the main ingredients are sodium and more sodium. The meat inside is soft; not too chewy; kind of bland if we're really being honest, but the excess of sodium on the outside makes up for it.

What I'm saying is ... they're nothing special.

However. There is a sauce. A cheese sauce. A nacho cheese sauce.

And that dresses these naked little snacks up right nicely. The sauce is thick and probably a million calories, so if you're into counting those maybe you should stop. It's got a peppery bite to it that quite makes up for how unremarkable the actual chips are.

Dunking those triangle chixchips into this hot, melty sauce is akin to sitting at a sporting event in the nosebleed seats with a cold beer and a plate full of those awful cheap round actual nachos drenched in spicy hot melty nasty-but-yet-so-damn-addicting-yellow-cheese-is-it-even-really-a-sauce-or-is-it-a-drug-called-queso goodness that cost you approximately $8.65 and suddenly your team scores and you leap out of your seat and your nachos go flying (but your beer doesn't; priorities). Are these Taco Bell delights worth $8.65? Just like those actual nachos ... absolutely not. But are they a not terrible snack for a couple bucks?

Sho thang, chicken wing.

Bonus: We also tried the new "spiked" lemonade Baja Blast that allegedly contains prickly pear cactus juice. It tastes like liquified Sour Patch Kids. Do not recommend getting a large.

The CRÚ Crew

Wine bars are not normally somewhere I want to go for lunch.

I mean, to be completely honest, wine bars are not my choice of place to eat no matter what time of the day it is. Though I find the art of winemaking fascinating, beer and whiskey/bourbon are much more my preferred imbibements (that's a word now). J, however, is very into wine and it's really impressive. So one chilly day in December, we decided to venture to Avalon — remember my visit to The El Felix? It's near there — to do some shopping, and when we discovered there was a wine bar in the vicinity, we figured we'd check it out.

I'm still not sure I'd pick out a wine bar for the sake of eating at a wine bar, but I would go back to CRÚ in a heartbeat!

CRÚ Food & Wine Bar, believe it or not, is a franchise. But you wouldn't know it if you walked in (or at least, I had no idea). The restaurant named its executive chef on the door; it's beautifully decorated; and there are a million bottles of wine everywhere.

The service was also fantastic. Ever since J started working as a server, we've both been really conscious to when we have excellent service and when it's sort of lackluster. Our main server was talkative, engaging and gave great advice on what wines to pair which which meals. The wine menu rotates pretty regularly, so it's nice to be able to go to a place and have your server tell you what's new, what's great, etc. Since I'm not much of a vino, I didn't get a drink, but J got a wine flight.

If you are into wine, you should order a wine flight. Not only do you get the requisite three restaurant-sized glasses of wine (I say that because if I do drink wine at home, I pour until the glass is at least half-full, because where's the fun in anything less?), but they are presented to your table in this nifty little carrier. No more bulky hand trays for these folks. You also get a flight card that describes what each of the wines is, its region, how it's made and the flavors you should experience. J has to usually tell me what flavors I'm experiencing, but I did take a sip of each just for fun. But I wasn't there for the wine ... I was there for the Napa Burger.

The CRÚ lunch menu is small, and I was torn between going whole hog on a burger or being light and dainty and pseudo-healthy and ordering a cheese plate. But because we don't treat ourselves to a lot of date nights or date days these days, I decided to spoil myself a little this time.

The Napa Burger just sounded incredible. First, it's a hamburger, so duh. Second, the toppings. I love, love, love savory and sweet, and this burger had everything I needed in each bite. The fig jam was divine. It wasn't sugary sweet, but it had a deep, almost molasses-like sweetness that just enveloped the melted cheese, the caramelized onions and the hot, juicy beef patty. Oh, the cheese! As good as each bite of the burger was, I could probably have eaten an entire wheel of the Humboldt Fog. This melty, creamy goat cheese comes form California and has a consistency like brie. They also served it with the white rind on, which I really liked. Plus the bun was soft and buttery; the arugula not overly peppery; and the gherkin pickles on top were nice and crunchy. The side was matchstick potatoes, and though some of them weren't cut all the way through, totally worth it. They were tasty and since they were so skinny, I didn't feel like a fatty for eating most of them!

My only qualm is that the burger promised roasted tomatoes, and instead was served with fresh sliced. Given that tomatoes aren't in season again until May here in Georgia, whatever distributor CRÚ uses did a fab job of bringing in vibrant red fruits. They were delicious, but I can't help but wonder what depth of flavor the roasted would have achieved.

Guess I'll have to come back to find out. And maybe try the "Sinful Experience" cheese flight while I'm at it.

My Meatloaf Has Antlers.

Disclaimer: Please excuse terrible iPhone photos. I promise I'll do better next time. :)

One of the things J and I do at least once a month now (OK, starting last month, but whatever) is go to dinner and a movie. We kicked off this new tradition by heading to one of those fancy theaters with the reclining cushy seats and cocktail bars to see Benedict Cumberbatch star in his Marvel debut: "Doctor Strange."

Before I tell you about dinner let me confess to being a Cumberbitch. Yes. That is what my man Benedict's fanclub of fangirls is called. We are Cumberbitches. If anyone is looking to get me a Christmas present, a Cumberbitch shirt would be amazing. Preferably with a cape so that I can pretend I too am a Tilda Swinton-devotee-time-traveling-time-bending-mirror-dimension-fighting-superhero-who-takes-on-Mads Mikkelsen-the-white-ninja-with-a-cape-related-to-Aladdin's-magic-carpet. That is the plot of the movie, in case you did not get that part.

On the way out, J looked up nearby restaurants that were open and said, "Hey, here's Sage Woodfire Tavern. I've always wanted to go there since like high school."

That's the super-interesting story of why we decided to go here.

My first impression? Oh shit; I did not dress appropriately. See, the word "tavern" in the restaurant title is a tiny bit misleading. When I think tavern, I think hyper-masculine place with beer served in flagons, burgers, steak, mounted game on the walls ... you get my drift. Sage Woodfire Tavern is not that kind of tavern. It's a dark, moody restaurant on the inside with glossed wood tables and candlelit accent lights with live music and high-class decor. "Sage Woodfire Super Fancy Restaurant" would have been a better name. Thankfully, the dark lighting hid my ripped jeans and Converses from public view.

We started off with an appetizer of calamari, which is fried squid. Delicious. There are two ways to mess up fried squid: one, cook it so it's too tough (ew) or two, bland breading (ugh). Sage did neither of those things! The calamari was lightly breaded in a seasoning that had just enough kick to complement the spicy dipping sauce it was served with, but not enough to overpower your palate. The texture was also nice. Each bite required chewing, but it wasn't like you were trying to gnaw through raw, chilled, uncooked pork fat or anything. I thought the garnish of red pepper strips was a weird touch, but I ate them anyway because I do enjoy red pepper.

Along with the appetizer, our server brought bread. The bread was whatever. The dipping oil though? Y'ALL. I would go back just for that. Salt. Oil. Herbs de provence (I asked). Balsamic drizzle. Green onions. Tomatoes. The flavor in this little bowl was amazing! It had everything I could possibly imagine to mix in a dipping oil and then some. Like imagine this on a pasta dish, right?! Hold on; making a mental note to try that.

I had to do some major resisting to avoid eating all of the bread.

The star of the show, though, was this insane meatloaf thing I ordered. LOOK. IT HAS ANTLERS. My meatloaf has. antlers. I have never seen a garnish like this. I'm not sure what I think of it, especially since being a weird meat science person I happen to know that none of the three types of meat in this meatloaf have antlers (beef, veal [baby beef] and pork). But it caught my attention, for sure.

Let me break this entree down for you.

The meatloaf, as I mentioned, was a combination of Angus filet mignon, veal and pork. Those are all three pretty decadent in themselves, but combined? I have never eaten a meatloaf with this much depth of savory flavors. Angus is one of the most common types of beef cattle in America — they're the big black ones you'll see in fields all over the Southeast, especially. It's so popular that it has its own brand with specific requirements to market beef: Certified Angus Beef. The filet mignon is the retail name for a specific cut from the tenderloin, and it is the most tender cut of beef. It also happens to be my favorite, so!

Now, before y'all start yelling at me for eating veal, let me school you a moment.

Veal is baby beef. Beef is technically a meat derived from a steer (castrated male bovine) that is harvested at 12 to 18 months of age. Sidenote: If you're buying grass-finished beef, it's probably closer to 18 to 24 months. Because grass-only puts less fat on meat than a grain-and-grass diet, it takes longer for these animals to get a similar fat covering and thus flavor. Veal calves are harvested younger than 12 months old, and enjoy a mostly milk-based diet. There are also lots of regulations regarding how they are raised in a safe manner with the health of the calves paramount ... but that's another post for another time. Anyway, because the animals are harvested at such a young age, veal is ridiculously tender. Butter-soft. And also naturally mild-flavored (goes back to the calves' diets).

So let's review. The meatloaf has pork (naturally rich and flavorful, because fat is amazing). It has Angus filet (read my lips: t-e-n-d-e-r). It also has veal (tender-er).

I kid you not: forkfuls melted in my mouth. Combined with the mushroom bordelaise sauce, which includes red wine and marrow in its ingredient list, plus soft and fluffy Yukon Gold mashed potatoes and salty wilted spinach ... this is foodgasm-level good. (If you look on the menu, you'll notice the vegetable side was supposed to be steamed vegetables. Gross. I subbed in the wilted spinach.)

Oh, and have I mentioned the portion size yet?! You may think $17 for a meatloaf is bat-guano-crazy, but you get a lot of meatloaf/potatoes/veg for $17. I turned it into three meals. Three so-good meals.

This will definitely be a repeat place — also on the specials menu is tiramisu cheesecake ... what! — but I will probably wear something a little more appropriate for the atmosphere.

She's Back! Also, Pie.

Oh, hey y'all! It's been a hot minute.

Chocolate chess pie from my very first visit.
photo | Dallas Anne Duncan

Before I delve into the Best Pie Shop On The Planet (or, at least in my humble opinion, the best pie shop north of I-285), let me explain why the Meatetarian went MIA for 14 months ... and share with you my plan going forward!

I took on too much. I had a full-time job. I started a magazine. I added volunteer duties. I wanted to be creative. I wanted to knit; to become a director for my direct sales company; to freelance to help support the magazine. At some point I lost my way and stopped writing completely and wondered what on Earth was wrong with me that I couldn't make things work. Kind of happens when you give 2,500 percent of your time, your heart, your drive and your dreams to a business plan that is not successful (or, at least, successful in terms of what you'd like to see). At one point this year, I even began avoiding finding fun places to eat out because every second away from my computer was a second I felt I should be working, and I guilted myself into believing that was the reason my dream business was going stagnant.

I lost my drive. I did the bare minimum at work and writing seemed a burden. I forgot why I wrote in the first place: because I love writing, because I want to teach people about food and farming and why journalism matters.

On Sunday, I made a decision. I needed to make a mental shift forward, away from all the "what-ifs" and "woulda, coulda, shoulda." I needed to make focused, small efforts each day ... each week ... each month, until I was in a place where I enjoyed all of the hats I wear versus dreading putting them on. One of the ways this will happen is weekly Meatetarian Eats updates, every Thursday during my lunch hour, which will go live on Fridays.

This week, I want you to close your eyes and open your pie hole.

I heard about Pie Hole, a fabulous, eensy-weensy cottage bakery in Roswell, Georgia, long before I knew where it was. My aunt and uncle brought a couple of pies to family Christmas a couple years ago, and back in March, I accidentally stumbled upon it while taking myself on a window-shopping excursion down Canton Street. You can't see the bakery from the road; there's only a small sign with a clip-art pie image, the words "Pie Hole" and a giant arrow pointing up a narrow dirt drive.

"Oh heck yes," thinks me, who just got done eating a relatively healthy meal of a salad and sandwich. "I think I'll have dessert."

For $5, I sampled a hefty serving of chocolate chess pie (see top photo). Bestill my heart, y'all. It was decadent. So moist! So rich! So perfect to slowly lick off a fork, eyes closed, hoping no one is watching you savor this sweet moment.

S'mores pie. Coke bottle for scale of the toasted marshmallow
topping. photo | Dallas Anne Duncan

Pie Hole became a regular stop. When my family came up to visit, it's where we took Nanny for her birthday (I highly recommend the s'mores pie — a thick, chocolate filling atop graham cracker crust, slathered with gooey toasted marshmallow fluff). The lovely owner of Pie Hole knows me as "the girl who takes pies to Augusta" on account of me stopping in before every birthday and major holiday to pick up at least one of her incredible creations.

Mom got peanut butter pie for Mother's Day and key lime for her birthday. The homemade whipped cream topping on the key lime pie, by the way, isn't just homemade. It is made for you when you pick up the pie. While you wait. Whoever happens to be in the kitchen when you walk in stops what they're doing, pours some potion ingredients into a mixer and whips up some magic. No one does this anymore!

My most recent foray to Pie Hole was for this weekend's "Fakesgiving," the adorable moniker I gave to the super-early Thanksgiving celebration my family hosted. Two pies came back to Augusta this time — one, a pecan, to celebrate Daddy's birthday, and the other apple. I'll tackle the pecan first by saying I am not a pecan pie fan. The pecans never seem seasoned right, so you end up with these flavorless nuts on top of a sugary, syrupy filling and gross, crumbly crust. But Pie Hole did it up right: the pecans were the best part!

They were big, seasoned with cinnamon and all those warm fall flavors, crisped together almost like a streusel topping. The filling was sweet but not overly so, and it had a nice tackiness to it — no runaway syrup here! We ate it at room temperature moments after arriving in town, but I can only imagine it would be even better heated up and served with ice cream on the side.

But the star of the weekend was, undoubtedly, The Apple Pie Gifted From Gods.

The half-devoured apple pie at "Fakesgiving." photo | Dallas Anne Duncan

Layer. Upon. Layer. of thin-sliced, north Georgia apples, baked perfectly so they are soft yet not falling apart; still with just a hint of crispness. The flavor is a perfect lightly sweet apple-cinnamon. It's like you're eating a bite of pure fall. Oh, and how tall this pie is! The beautiful crust is sky-high, and that's not much of an exaggeration. And each millimeter of that beautifully rustic, hand-formed crust is stuff with those apples. Leaving that pie on Nanny's kitchen table to drive back to Atlanta was not an easy life choice (but we would have devoured it on the way home, so we decided to sacrifice our sweet tooth to share with everyone else). Even our relatives from Australia, who were in town to visit, got to try this magnificence.

In the entire six days since Pie Pick-Up Day, it's been really hard to resist the nine-minute drive to get more pie. Did I mention how ridiculously affordable these handmade pies are? Seriously. A slice and a Coke'll cost you maybe $8, and whole pies are less than $30.

Now the decision remains: which one do I take home for Christmas next month?