THE USUAL NOTE FROM LB: From the summer of 2002 to the spring of 2010, Gwen the Beautiful and I were the proud and often exhausted owners of a beautiful Ozarks property we called Cloud Creek Ranch.
In many ways, the ranch was paradise. But it was a paradise with a price that started going up before we even knew it existed. Here’s another Monday musing about our adventure and the lessons we learned.
Oh, and if y’all detect any irony, please believe me when I say it comes straight from the universe and not your kindly Uncle Larry B.
by Larry Brody
Just about anyone who’s ever read what I write about in this space every week knows how much I love living here in Paradise.
The land!
The animals!
The people!
The charms of country living are abundant, and I hear daily from city folks who say they envy me for the slow pace and warm intimacy of my world.
My old friend Cal, Brooklyn born and bred, put it this way: “Everything you write about Paradise resonates in me. Just the thought of living in a place where the UPS driver and I could know each other’s names sends chills down my spine.”
Well, Cal, my friend, just hearing you say that did the same thing for me.
But—much as I hate to say it—there’s a dark side to Paradise after all. I’ve tried not to say much about it, but the sad truth is that we’re missing a few things here that I’m still having trouble doing without.
Restaurants!
Now don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying there aren’t any good restaurants here in Paradise and its adjoining counties. Because, of course, there are. Fine places, many of them not merely reasonably priced but downright inexpensive, and, also for the most part, specializing in delicious meals that are exactly what Mama would’ve cooked if she’d been as good a cook as Daddy always told her she was.
I mean, I can’t think of any other geographical area where I can pull into just about any building that says, “Café!” “Dining Room!” or “Grill!” on its sign and taste better fried chicken.
Or biscuits and gravy.
Catfish.
Mashed potatoes.
Chicken Fried steak.
Trout.
Good, filling (some unenlightened souls might say “fattening,” but no, not I), stick-to-the-ribs country food.
But—there’s that negative conjunction again—sometimes even as satisfied an old boy as Larry B gets a hankering for something new. For a delicious meal that’s not something Gwen the Beautiful could make at home.
For an aromatic, exotic, senses-stirring meal that takes my taste buds away from the heartland of the good ole U.S.A. and makes them think, just for an hour or so, that they and their good buddy my stomach have been transported to a faraway, spice-steeped land where they can indulge themselves in, oh say, sushi.
Or curry.
Beijing duck.
Sizzling rice soup.
Pad Thai.
Original Chicago-style deep dish pizza. (You don’t think Chicago pizza is exotic? Oh ye of little faith….)
Ah! How I hunger!
I can feel the pangs growing stronger as I write this. I can taste…I can taste….
STOP!
Sorry, guess I got a little carried away there. Remembering that in the city an Indian-owned-and-operated-and-cooked Indian restaurant was just around the corner. And that a Thai-owned-and-operated-and-cooked Thai restaurant was just up the block from that. With a Japanese-owned-and-operated-and-cooked sushi bar across the street.
Just about any kind of food from any country was available for any meal (ever have falafel for breakfast?), and I took the situation for granted. It was No Big Deal.
“If you’re missing all that so much, why don’t you go back? Why not put the ranch up for sale and wave good-bye to the hills?”
That’s the voice of Celia, Sweet Jane’s sister.
That’s what she said when I mentioned this little problem a couple of days ago. I didn’t answer then, but now I’ve thought about it a bit more. And the conclusion I’ve come to is this:
All of life is a trade-off. A balancing of interests, wants, needs. Yep, I’d really like to have worldwide, world-class cuisine a twenty-minute drive away. But there’s no way I’m ready to pay the price.
No way I’m going to give up my privacy and freedom, my fresh air, my horses and chickens and hawks and eagles and pond and creek and caves, my Brannigan the Contractor and Doug the Dog Breeder and Buck the ex-Navy Seal.
No way I’m going to live in a place where the UPS driver and I don’t know each other’s names—just to satisfy the occasional craving for raw fish and burned lips.
Hmm…I think we should go out to dinner tonight. Where’ll it be? The All You Can Eat Buffet off the Square? The Chicago Hot Dog Stand? The Mexican Restaurant across from the courthouse? That Great Little Barbecue Place just this side of Mountain Home?
My mind boggles. The possibilities are endless.
See? I really do live in Paradise!
