Most of us have moments of deeply spiritual wonder, glimpses of eternity, a nanosecond where all mysteries are revealed and we feel thoroughly alive and connected to every beautiful thing on the planet.  It’s not unusual to feel this way after a narrow escape – say, when you’re pulling onto the freeway and the 18-wheeler next to you doesn’t see you and tries to merge into your lane but you floor it and pull in front of him at the last possible second.  The protagonist in David Boop’s tidy, entertaining and well-written entry for our A Dish Called “Wanda” contest may have experienced this same phenomenon, but for entirely different reasons.  Read on to see what I mean.

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True Grit in Willow Creek

The locals warned me about Wanda’s, but why was there a total lack of fire-fighter presence as the restaurant burned? It baffled me. We’re talking not even a Dalmatian in a five-block radius and, by the absence of sirens howling in the night, none would be coming, either.

Oh, there were people. You’d swear the whole town of Willow Creek had come out to see the spectacle, like a neighbor being dragged off to jail for having child pornography on his laptop. Many of them openly wept, too. It was only on closer inspection I noticed they weren’t tears of sorrow, but of joy. Kids high-fived and a garage band started setting up on the opposite corner.

What Brigadoonian hell had I wandered into? When I pulled off the highway and asked the gas station attendant what, if anything, was still open, he shuddered in that walked-over-his-own-grave way that set my neck hairs tingling. He said that the only place that would serve anything close to food that late was Wanda’s, but refused to give me directions to it. When I went outside to search the phone book that swung in a late summer wind, I was unnerved to find that the address and number were scribbled out and a message read, “Not while I’m alive.” It was only my morbid curiosity that wouldn’t let this go. But even my GPS betrayed me, refusing to lock on to the address I’d gotten off the internet. I ended up at a motel, a body shop and a dog groomers before I gave up and drove around until I found the street.

My course took me to the outskirts of town. The glow that appeared on the horizon reminded me of a traveling carnival you see from the highway and can’t help but take the next exit to enjoy even though you’re running behind. Only, as I drew closer, I saw the smoke that accompanied the flickering orange light and recognized it for what it was:  a giant bonfire.

Now, as I stood beside my car and gazed with fascination as couples danced together for what seemed like the first time in decades and teens, male and females alike, ripped off shirts and swung them overhead like patriotic flags, I questioned if some sort of narcotic was burning in that establishment to drive these rural denizens into such a frenzy. I sniffed the air thinking I’d flash back to a Dave Matthews concert, but all I could detect was the smell of burnt wood, wires and ham.

Someone’s grandma took my hand.

“Dance with me, stranger!” she commanded.

She’d gone the way of the youth and was sans top. I was relieved she’d kept her brassiere on. After two songs, I broke away and was offered a beer from a keg that’d been dropped into the center of the street. I politely declined saying I was driving to California and hadn’t eaten yet.

The music ended abruptly. The people stopped moving and they all turned to look at me. The man who’d offered me the brew swallowed hard and said in a shaky voice, “You weren’t comin’ to eat at Wanda’s, were you?”

I nodded slowly, not sure if should have lied. There was a collective gasp. The man, a balding gent with a paunch around his mid-section, held out an open hand and yelled, “Brat! Now!” From nowhere, someone deposited a fully-loaded Johnsonville cheddarwurst into his palm. He handed it to me and firmly grasped my shoulder. “Sir, thank your maker you didn’t arrive sooner.” He looked at the crowd, water forming at the edge of his eyelids and proclaimed, “WE SAVED ONE!”

Like a Super Bowl field-goal kick in overtime, the crowd erupted into a riotous cheer. I accepted the beer this time and ate two more dogs before getting back into my ride. Everyone waved goodbye as I backed down the street and retraced my steps to the highway.

I stopped by the gas station once again to fill up, looking forward to putting the night’s events behind me. The attendant came out as I stuck the nozzle in.

“Is it true?” he asked. “Wanda’s is gone?”

I nodded.

He spat on the ground. “Good riddance!”

I couldn’t stop the question from escaping, “So, what’s the deal? What was so bad about Wanda’s?”

Without cracking a smile, he said, “Worst. Grits. Ever.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

And that’s when I came to realize the people of Willow Creek take their grits pretty seriously.

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As well they should.