Dinner in a Diner

A couple weeks ago we were in a small town outside of Utah Valley. We had done something Christmasy and now needed to eat. There were some restaurants and a "famous" burger joint but as we drove down Main Street I spotted a small, unimpressive diner. "That's the spot!" I exclaimed excitedly.

And out of all the outings and travels and activities we'd done together as a family that year, somehow that diner was the most healing of them all. The girls were happy and well behaved. We ordered a basket of fries, milk shakes, and a scone. I got a country fried steak. I always get a country fried steak. The cups were thick plastic, the booths were made of unassuming vinyl, wood paneled walls, a slot window from the dining room to the kitchen was interrupted by a simple silver spinning disc to hold the hand written orders in place for cooks. 

It grew dark outside.

And I felt so far from normal life. There was nothing to clean, nobody to answer to, nothing to organize or strategize. That diner, for whatever reason, became a little pocket of time where nothing else mattered except my little family.

And for whatever reason, diners have a way of charming me like this over and over again.

Does anyone else feel this way?

Perhaps it's all the road trips I took "back in the day." When you're on a road trip the whole thing feels like a tiny pocket of stilled time that follows you in your car. And finding a good, filling diner at any stop is always like finding treasure. Your belly gets fed but you also get a sense of the town you're in, and either good conversations are had or good silence of satisfaction is held.

And with any luck, you'll find the world's best country fried steak.

And your own pocket of time.