A few days ago a friend of the family's came down from Washington to visit.
We all hopped into the car and headed for barbecue in Fort Worth. It was my first time being in a barbecue joint. Surrounded by neon beer signs, mounted deer heads, and wood grain brought me back to days in Idaho when my rough-it-out-in-a-tent-with-a-beer-and-grill-for-5-weeks-Grandparents were still around. God bless them, they were far tougher than I'll ever be. My Grandma won a big buck hunting competition, and she wouldn't take crap from anyone. My Grandpa Howard knew how to play a mean hand of cards, and when he was losing "innocently" would itch his nose with a certain finger. I remember when they gave my sister and I each a pair of real leather cowboy boots. Now I'm not the slightest interested in cowboy culture, but it was nice feeling close to them in spirit.
We stopped at three places that night, the aformentioned barbecue pit, a wine bar called Winslow's (Delicious truffle brownie and two cappuccinos) and a place called The Ginger Man for my parents to taste some microwbrew.