Ten Years of Tie Dye Traveling.

It's hard to believe I've been writing the stories and sharing my adventures for ten years. Tie Dye Travels hasn't just become part of the story of Arkansas and its food, it's become a news source in itself - and my primary portal to the world.

A Walk Through the Weeks Bay Pitcher Plant Bog.

Off the cuff, the remark "hey, let's go look at a bog!" when it's 89 degrees outside in southern Alabama may sound a little off. After all, aren't bogs what trolls hang out in? Few would be excited to spend their midmorning ankle deep in muck, right?

However, bogs are important eco-systems that often get overlooked. They're fragile, and even footprints can cause problems for plants who need the spongy, water-filled soil to grow.

The Weeks Bay Pitcher Plant Bog between Magnolia Springs and Fairhope, Alabama is meant to help preserve a unique area, part waterscape, part landscape, where carnivorous plants can grow.

Massive Burgers at The Blue Rooster in Flora, Mississippi.

When a burger's so big that a fork is the only real tool you should consider in consuming it, that's a big burger. Watch our Instagrams unfold as Grav and I dig into a couple of the utterly massive cooked-to-order burgers at The Blue Rooster.

Road Eats: Blue Duck in Livingston, TX.

Something you learn doing what we do... is to never judge a book by its cover.  Or, in this instance, a restaurant by its menu.

Coming to the end of our long journey, we had just perched for the night in Livingston, TX, about an hour out from Houston.  This was our last night on the road together for the coming month, and we were going to make it count...by finding a really great restaurant.

Thing is, though, Livingston in the dark is not a very promising-looking place, and Urbanspoon wasn't coming up with a lot of places to try out.  There was this one listing downtown, though, for a place called the Blue Duck.  There were no photos of the food, just an exterior and what appeared to be a window with the restaurant's logo.  Though we were tired, we were up for the challenge, we thought.

After parking on the street (the Blue Duck is on a block close to the county courthouse), we ducked the rain and found our entry point, a four story building that had apparently received recent care.  Inside, we walked through a small dining room where a single group had gathered, and were ushered further in by a hostess.

This second room was a two story cave with windows in the far back, with a staircase to one side and a bar that ran about two thirds the length of the room.  Immediately our hearts sank... it appeared we'd come to a bar, and neither of us were in the mood for bar fare.

We didn't feel much better when we saw the menus, which were often-dampened printed sheets slid inside a report cover.  In fact, this really, really screamed "bar food" to us.

But at the next table, a family was being asked what they wanted for dessert, and one of the options happened to be a strawberry cheesecake brownie.  I looked at Grav and shrugged and he shrugged back.  It was close to eight in the evening.  We were tired.  We weren't going anywhere else.

We finally got up the gumption to order.  I was curious about the steak-filled potato, which our waitress insisted was a winner.  Grav ordered a pork chop, and we put in for an order of fried mushrooms.

Now, honestly, I assumed the mushrooms would have been the plain Farm Rich or food service breadcrumb-encrusted mushrooms that you get most anywhere. Instead, a while later our waitress delivered a basket of fat, golf ball-sized golden globes to our table with ranch dressing.   We were

stunned.  She informed us these creations were battered with Shiner Bock, and made right in the kitchen.

Everything changed at that moment.  Thrilled with the prospect of an actual decent meal, we found ourselves salivating as we shot and then downed these magnificent creations.  Both of us took to cutting them in half to prevent the inter-oral explosion of hot mushroom juices between our teeth.  They were huge, and they were delicious.

Our meals weren't far behind.  I found that the steak potato I ordered came with a display of different toppings -- cheese, sour cream, margarine, chives and real bacon -- and that the medium-sized potato had

been filled with about eight ounces of just-cooked steak.  The pieces were a perfect medium rare, leaving a pinkish stain on the inside of the potato.  They'd been cooked in a combination of steak seasoning and Worchestershire sauce and needed no extra additives to be delicious.  The affair came with a couple of slices of very crusty French bread.

While my dish was exactly what I wanted, Grav's was exactly what he needed -- which, in his case, was a reason to believe in pork chops again.  We've been many places, and he's encountered everything from half inch to quarter inch thick chops, usually grayish slabs served alongside eggs or a potato or a side item, uninspiring

and unappealing.  Not this time.  The inch-thick or better chop was lightly crusted from its turn under the broiler, crispy-coated yet so tender.  The porkish aroma was influenced with a little salt and not much more, but

it was so achingly good that I wanted to touch it, to ply it between my teeth and engage in its destruction.  Oh, terrible pork allergy, how I rue your existence!

What made my cravings worse was the long ramekin packed with macaroni noodles in bechamel sauce, topped with Cheddar cheese, I was allowed a taste of this and almost ordered my own... but with so much food, it would have been a waste.

Amazingly, there were no leftovers, which considering our earlier contact with the gigantic double meat cheeseburgers at Fulton's Red River Cafe, was nothing short of amazing.  We even craved, and got, a piece of Boston Cream pie to share betwixt us.  It was moist and sweet and custardy and Grav let me have the last bites because he is awesome like that.

We walked out feeling very fortunate, excited still about the meal we had just encountered.  This pretty little restaurant served up some great food, despite a rather gnarly menu.  So, yeah, don't judge the restaurant by its menu cover.

I went back and took a photo of the exterior during the day on my way home.  The building is pretty epic itself.  It's the former Mistrots Brothers facility and it dates back to 1935.  Lovely restoration, if the restaurant is any indication. I hope I find myself back down that way soon.

Blue Duck
410 N Washington Ave.
Livingston, TX 77351
(936) 327-2385
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Road Eats: Russell's Beef House in Corinth, MS.

I think I actually stepped foot in Russell's Beef House for the first time back in 2006, at the insistence of my friend Kristy. This was before I started writing about food. She insisted I needed to try this local favorite while I was in

Corinth, Mississippi, so I did... and it was good.

Since then, every time I've been through town, I've had to stop in with whomever was traveling with me and have a steak. When I was with folks I was comfortable with, I'd share this particular Sirloin for Two with them. I'm trying to recall if my brother actually tried the steak on his own, but if so, that was back in 2007 and I don't have photos to

prove anything.

In fact, the sad fact that I don't have photos from any of those early visits is why Grav and I decided to divert our trip home from Birmingham to get us up to Corinth for one of these steaks.  Mind you, Siri was plotting against us and tried to send us elsewhere about six times, which is why we saw way more of rural Alabama on the way there before we arrived (we'll be back, Russellville Alabama, you have interesting things) in our epic foggy, wet drive, but eventually we pulled into town and into the soggy parking lot. We were shocked to find that for once, there was not a line to get in. We were also thankful for that... as I mentioned, it was raining.

Inside, the scent of meat roasting over an open fire permeated everything -- from the all-wood walls to the all-wood tables to the not-all-wood wait and cook staff.  If you can't stand the smell of beef, you're just out of luck here.  The effect is to immediately cause one to drool and possibly paw at the ground a bit.

We were escorted to a table in the front section (the restaurant consists of a cavernous collection of wood-paneled rooms), right past the open grill, where meat was happily sizzling away under an expert eye.  We didn't really even need to look at the menu.  I knew what I wanted, and Grav acquiesced that yes, the Sirloin for Two was an excellent choice.  We ordered it medium rare-towards rare, I chose a baked potato as a side and he went for sauteed mushrooms.

While our steaks were being prepared, we slid up to the salad bar and filled our bowls. The salad bar isn't all that large at Russell's, but it's nicely packed with anything you really might want to consume before a steak.  It's located right next to the front door, which means you really do see about all the restaurant has to offer at one time upon entry to the place.

Salads were a good thing, too, cutting the edge off a hunger that had grown in the seven hours since we'd left Big Bad Breakfast on the far side of Birmingham.  No, it

normally doesn't take that long to get from Birmingham to Corinth, but as I mentioned, we'd been sidetracked.

Walking back to the table with the bowl of salad, I noticed the gigantic vats of margarine and sour cream on the bar that's both the register and wait counter for the

restaurant. Baked potatoes are popped open and scoops of the two are slapped inside immediately after steaks hit the plates when they come off the grill, which pretty much allows the waitress to fling them on, pick up the plate and have it to the diner in mere moments from coming off the great pit.

I suppose those potatoes are the reason for the sign overhead cautioning customers to watch for flying potatoes.  From where we were sitting in the front section, we had a pretty good show.  Being a little late on a Sunday night, the crowd was winding down for the
evening, so we didn't notice any potatoes actually flying, but I'd be interested in seeing this happen (I'm told that they'r called flying potatoes because they'll fly right into your stomach, which alleviates my concern over the potential for thrown potatoes ala the thrown rolls at Lambert's Cafe and its knockoffs).

What did seem to be flying, though, were steaks when they were ordered.  They were pulled from a designated refrigerator to the right and brought over quickly to be thrown onto the brick-and-stone grill in the middle of the cooking pit.  There wasn't much evidence of any other cooking than this, but that was fine.  Tendrils of smoke were steadily whisked up and out by a massive overhead fan. The grill master expertly doused each steak with the special house sauce and maneuvered them with great tongs from one side of the charcoal heat to the other.

Russell's Beef House, by the way, is housed in a building built in 1957 by E. N. Howell, who ran a restaurant named after his daughter Kathy there.  It's also been home to the Dairyland.  According to the restaurant's website, Troy Russell came back to Corinth when his grandson, Russell Smith, was born, and decided to open this great steakhouse.  The young boy grew into a restaurateur himself. Russell Smith has not only worked at Russell's Beef House, he and his wife have another restaurant called Smith in downtown Corinth -- which I need to visit next time I come to town (along with Abe's Grill, I'm told).

And in not much longer than it would take to read from where we ordered to this point, our massive plate was delivered to our table, along with an aluminum foil wrapped package of mushrooms, a potato and a basket containing two long garlicky grilled French bread spears.  The massive monster, weighing in at a whole two pounds, spread across the plate and seemed to egg us on to eating it while we patiently, yet still hungrily, managed to shoot it over and over

again.

And this... this is a STEAK.  An inch thick, over a foot wide, glistening and hot.

Dang it, I wanted to eat it right then.

And finally, once Grav had finished shooting it

with the BAC and his camera for Instagrams, after we'd sliced into it and divided it, I finally had that marvelous, rich, slightly peppery steak to eat.  And it was everything I had remembered - perfectly cooked, warm in

the middle and still red, butterknife tender, minimal gristle.  I interspersed bites of steak and potato, saving the salty bread spear for sopping up juices.

We did learn something this time around.  Grav wanted to try the house seasonings and went for a shaker bearing orangish-red granules within. The surprise came when he discovered this cinnamon-sugar mix was for baked sweet potatoes.  Well, you live and learn.

I think we were both full by the time the waitress came back the second time to check

on us and see if we needed more tea.  And yet, half the steak was still there.  We're not complete gluttons -- that was a pound of meat for each of us!  So of course, it went home with us.

It wasn't easy to leave. Though we were cheerily brought our ticket and box, and though the jovial gentleman invited us back, and though the rain had briefly ceased, we found ourselves plopped into the car after shooting the sign outside wishing that Tupelo (our final destination for the night) were just a bit closer, since we were both ready to turn in for the night.  We did manage to make it, smelling what was left of that steak the whole way.

Russell's Beef House
104 US Highway 72
Corinth, MS 38834
(662) 287-5150
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Road Eats: Big Bad Breakfast in Birmingham, AL.

How far would you drive for a chili dog waffle? Well, that's probably too far.

But not if you're already in town and have heard amazing things about a place like Big Bad Breakfast. The retro diner,

originally opened in Oxford, MS under the auspices of Chef John Currence has found life for a second outlet under an agreeable partnership between Currence and Alabama's own Jim N' Nick's founder Nick Pihakis... in a strip mall southeast of Birmingham proper.

That's enough of the copyspeak.  Let me tell you about our visit.

Grav and I rolled out to Birmingham for Food Media South, a really neat conference that brought folks that write food blogs and articles like myself together with editors and social media folks and other people who think southern food is just dandy.  I was pinching it in between an appearance at the North American Raspberry and Blackberry Association's meet in Fayetteville and an important mission to Houston (more about that later).  I'd already put about a thousand miles on the Honda, we were done with the conference and we needed sustenance of epic nature before the dual drive that day to Corinth and Tupelo, MS, respectively.

The thought of eating at a chain restaurant or even at somewhere close to our our hotel seemed... defeating, somehow.  After all, Grav and I relish the adventure... it's what keeps us going.  So we poured through Urbanspoon listings and found something that seemed very, very amazing -- Big Bad Breakfast.  It wasn't too far out from Homewood, where we'd been overnighting, and though it was exactly the opposite way from our departure direction, the photos provided on the review page were astounding.

Now, I've had and missed my chance to eat at the original Big Bad Breakfast quite a few times... thanks to the fact that my Oxford forays are usually limited to visits to the Southern Foodways Alliance Symposium each October and that by the time I have free space for breakfast, I am eated-out, I have passed.  I have enjoyed Chef Currance's marvelous City Grocery and Boure' (the latter of which makes a Bloody Mary in which I don't have to beg mercy, it is of beauty).  So I knew there was a good chance the vittles would be better than edible.  I shared the information with Grav, and he got excited.  So we got our stuff together, checked out and drove. And drove. And drove. Because, for someone coming from Arkansas, that drive down to Hoover from Homewood (which is all apparently part of the Birmingham metro) is a series of undulating forested hills interspersed with regularity by big flats of shopping centers and the occasional apartment complex, as if one had magnified the scope of JFK/Highway 107 on its journey northward from McCain Boulevard in North Little Rock on up through Sherwood and transported it miles away.  That's a ridiculous analogy. I probably should apologize for putting that there. But I won't.

We drove and drove, and it took us a good 40 minutes or so to get there.  And there was a line out front.  Now, you know me, I'll take a line in stride.  And if you've read this blog for any length of time, you know that Grav won't suffer anything more than five minutes, because he has things to do. So I dropped him off up front and went to hunt down a parking spot and he came back, arms flailing, with his usual "anywhere but here" mantra.  He hollered that it was a 50 minute wait, FIFTY minutes, not 15. I looked around, noted the presence of a Krispy Kreme, and put my foot down.  Dammit, I wanted to eat here.

It wasn't the chef that had lured me in, not even the promise of non-pork alternative chicken sausage or even the knowledge that the jelly is made in-house.  I had spotted something on the menu, and I was wondering if I might possibly get up the gumption to take on a certain dish.

But we had the line to contend with, and once I found a parking spot about six down from the front door we waited, windows open, for someone to holler that it was Well Done.  Yeah, I made a bad pun there.  I am in that sort of mood.  All the while, Grav flip-flopped between reasoning that by the time we'd driven back as far as Homewood, we'd finally get in -- and the idea that this better be the best damned breakfast he'd had in his life.  I countered with the fact that it was Sunday, that we'd checked out at 11 a.m. and that the church crowd was jockeying for every restaurant in the region with us.  We could take this.

Thing is, this particular Sunday was a rather dreary, wet day.  Few wanted to wetten their bottoms on the benches placed outside, and we noticed several that walked away after standing around under umbrellas.  The front vestibule might have been packed with hipsters waiting for a bite to eat, but outside there were families chatting up each other's ideas on food.  I overheard one three-generation set decide to try a local burger joint instead when it was mentioned that the noon hour had approached.

It was perhaps for that very fact that a mere 28 minutes into our wait, that sweet young girl leaned out the glass door and hollered "Well done!" which got Grav scrambling out of the car, waving his hands shouting back "we're here!" and me to get the cameras out of the backseat and lock up.  I caught up with him as he knocked his way between folks far thinner than us to follow a very dapper young man to the only spare seats in the place, a round right next to the kitchen with a pair of backless barstools.  He looked apologetically at me and asked if it'd be all right.

It was PERFECT.

Just a quick glance at the menu told me I'd be getting some "lead" in my system, and I ordered up Octane Coffee.  I was tempted to get fresh squeezed grapefruit juice as well but demurred, knowing my bladder was no match for the gargantuan stretches of recently-opened I-22 that had not yet been built out to by the myriad of tiny towns along its 'Bama length.  Grav peered over his glasses at his menu, grumbling that we'd waited too long to eat and he was going to have a hard time of it.  I threw suggestions his way, each answered with a grunt.

I even pointed out the beautiful creations coming out of the kitchen window, masterfully composed and beautifully orchestrated by a gentleman who checked out and ensured that every detail was correct.  Our dapper waiter, who I believe was named Samuel, kept my cup full and nodded appreciation at my choice to leave it black.

The noise inside was tremendous, and the crowd of young folks still standing in the vestibule made it moreso,  Every stool in front of the low bar up front was taken, and groups of two and three and even four surrounded similar tables to ours that were in the front window.  The other side of the place might have well have been Siberia, its noise impact unapparent thanks to the closer crowd, but Grav

went anyway and shot at them with the BAC.  I growled at him when he returned and insisted he make a decision.

Because I already knew what I wanted.  Though I was tempted by broiled grapefruit and the Cahaba Lily, I was sold the moment I saw it... the

ultimate bite-me to my upper digestive tract... the Move-It-On-Over.  Lo, I knew from its very ingredients that it would be very, very good or very, very, VERY bad.  And after spending the previous day in the company of some of the most intelligent, entertaining and vaunted members of the southern culinary and literary community, I was raring to challenge myself.

My concentration over such may have been the reason why I didn't get Grav's order, and how I managed to screw up and order for him the Low Country Breakfast rather than the requested Creola Skillet.  I am still to this day burned inside about that.  Not that Grav wasn't gracious about it, but that I had erred.  Until I can get him back to Oxford or Birmingham to experience his requested dish, I am in his debt.

Even with that, once Samuel had pinned down our orders, Grav continued to watch the ever-varied parade of items that came through that window, the collection of biscuits and grits and porky things, a mountainous cheeseburger, skillets and omelets of multiple colors and sizes.

We had no doubt, though, when our order was coming... because there was a mountain approaching the front of the kitchen window, a mountain of truly epic.  I briefly reconsidered my life choices, decided I was fine with them and after all, we were on the road, and made mental note to order some larger pants.

Our plates were delivered.... and Grav's plate was beautiful.  It was as if someone had pulled an image from the pages of Garden and Gun and inflated it into this more than respectable, heady-scented skilletful of steamed potato hash covered with andouille, corn, tomatoes, eggs and cheese and these perfectly formed, gorgeous curly shrimp.  Yet once our cavalcade of photos were complete, Grav poked at it

and lamented the lack of crawfish.

It was then that I realized my error.  I felt great guilt as I tore into the monster before me.

Mind you, we had eschewed breakfast for the promise of an incredible brunch, and now it was afternoon and I was nicely caffeinated from the Octane Coffee. But it would not have mattered if I had recently consumed a complete Tudor man breakfast, or a lunch.  Within the circumference of the pliant iron-fired cake, an entire large all-beef hot dog, hotly griddle-sauteed, spread out in large chunks.  Over it were the pleasures of the best chili dog in the world -- sweet coleslaw, hearty beef chili, deep orange Cheddar cheese, grilled onions and jalapenos and gorgeous, sweetish housemade pickle slices like saucy drunken kisses.

feast moments before... I could not keep my fork off the structure created for my enjoyment.  From its sweet waffle base to its saltine cracker top, it was everything I'd ever looked for in a

And while Grav became familiar with his plate, while he began to elevate and praise the remarkable biscuit with his repast and to slather it with housemade strawberry jam, I inhaled every bit of

the Move-It-On-Over, every cumin-laced chili dollop, every sliver of red onion, every melted morsel of cheese and puddle of remaining slaw juice, all but about half the jalapenos.  After all, I was going to be in an

enclosed vehicle with Grav for hours to come, no need to Dutch oven the poor boy.

I consumed the waffle with relish and desire in a way that should have been embarrassing to any other boyfriend unaccustomed to the passion I feel for good, hearty food.  And I managed to do it without dressing myself in its crumbs or drips.

It was enough.  It was thrilling and filling and once I realized it was gone I sat on my stool and stared longingly at my plate, my belly already griping at the waistline on my pants.  Samuel poured me more coffee and swiftly returned with another cupful in a takeaway.  I even reached across the table and swiped a fingerful of strawberry jam left on Grav's plate.

If there hadn't been the need to rush to get to the day's other review hours away in Corinth, I might have considered a stayover.  As it was, I bugged Grav to at the very least get some bacon to take home with him.  Ever the gentleman, he reminded me he wouldn't be home enough to enjoy it, and that we now had a better reason not to skip the Oxford location just because SFA tended to fill me to the brim.

If the line had been long when we had arrived, it was longer still when we left, the cadre of hungry diners waiting their turn far more patiently than Mr. Weldon tends to wait, all hoping for a chance at a table and a hot offering from the griddle at Big Bad Breakfast.  I suspect on our next visit to Birmingham, which I hope is soon, we'll join that line again.

PHOTOFEED BONUS: On our way out of town, we found a Vulcan.

Big Bad Breakfast
5361 US Highway 280
Birmingham, AL 35242
(205) 490-7568
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