The Babe from the Boondocks

10-4, Good Buddy!

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From Karyl’s Cook & Tell Newspaper Column (January 13, 1977)

If I couldn’t accept his dinner invitation, would I have lunch with him the next day and could I name the place? Goodie, thought I. The local truck stop, where the elite meet to eat, and a great big heater hangs from the ceiling and blows blasts of hot air, and if there are any homemade donuts left by lunchtime, they’re like bombs. Would that be okay?

That would be fine. We got there a little before noon, which is what you have to do if you want to be part of the trucking crowd. And that’s what I wanted to be. We opened the door, and the smell of tomato sauce assaulted my nose. I wanted whatever it was. We consulted the blackboard, which listed three predictable truck stop main courses—beef stew, chicken noodle soup and meatball sandwich. I picked the last, a concoction so spicy I couldn’t taste it. I loved every soggy bite.

The lure of trucks is an American thing. I always used to think only men were susceptible; I knew one once who went a little crazy every time an 18-wheeler came into view. Truck exhaust put him in orbit. “I wish…if only I could drive a truck like that,” he would babble, eyes glazed over, attention hopelessly diverted from the business at hand—staying on the road. It always made me feel like an old spoilsport to have to holler “Watch out!” or grab the wheel to avoid hitting oncoming traffic or landing in a ditch.

Then I found out about trucks myself. We got a ’56 Chevy pickup, painted Rustoleum blue with red hubcaps and rims the color of egg yolks. We didn’t have her long before she became part of my life, like a soul-sister. I got to drive her most of the time and actually preferred her to the cushy old Mercedes which was so precious it had to be put away for the winter anyway, and couldn’t be driven in the summer either, for fear some tourist would chip the expensive paint job.

Old Trucky was the Pride of the Island, a lovesome thing. Other drivers made ample room for me and Trucky. Small boys giggled and grown men gasped when I careened by at a reckless 25 mph, although I was never sure how fast I was driving because the speedometer didn’t work. I got so I could wave the super-cool emotionless wave that only truck drivers wave, releasing just your first two fingers from the wheel while never really letting go of it.

Every trip was a shakedown cruise. She had no shock absorbers. No speedometer, no glove compartment latch, no lock on the driver’s side door. The outside rear view mirror was cracked into segments that made the view out back look like scenes from a Fellini movie. The visor on the driver’s side tore off the first time I tried to turn it down. The windshield wipers worked occasionally and reluctantly. The heater was kaput.

Trucky went away about a year ago, but I will never forget her. Most memorable were the weekly long drives all one winter to one of Maine’s swankiest ladies’ specialty shops to deliver fashion drawings. Being without a heater, I had to rig up my own self-contained heating apparatus. There was me, in my abominable snowman boots and my mother’s old mink coat, my husband’s down-filled ski mittens that made me look like a boxer, a full suit of thermal undies undergirding the whole works. And there was my dog cuddled up on the seat beside me, giving off a sizeable number of BTU’s in body heat and keeping the windows well fogged.

No, it wasn’t Vogue magazine, but it was an act with considerable style. Didn’t I love pulling up at the shop entrance in my Blue Apparition, disembarking in my mink and mukluks, bearing a portfolio of fashion sketches for the shop’s newspaper ads! When I slammed the door, a shower of rust would fall to the ground. I gave the Babe from the Boondocks routine all I had. And Trucky admirably filled my need to be a little weird.

Meanwhile, back at the truck stop, I am thinking about the hearty dinners required by hefty drivers. My tongue is numb from the hot stuff in the meatball sandwich ($1.65). My pal has finished his beef stew ($2.25), but if I were cooking for the brotherhood of teamsters assembled here, I’d dish up this lamb stew.

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sketch by my mom, Karyl Bannister

FAINTLY FRENCH LAMB STEW

Makes 6 servings

• 2 lb. lean stew lamb in 1-inch cubes

• 3 T. oil

• 1 medium onion, chopped

• 1 clove garlic, crushed

• 2 T. flour

Brown lamb over medium-high heat in oil. Remove meat and reserve. Pour off most of the oil in pan saving about 1 T. Sauté onion and garlic. Return meat to same pan and sprinkle with flour. Add:

• 1 ½ c. chicken broth

• 1 ½ t. salt, dash pepper

• Some marjoram or rosemary

• 1 bay leaf

• 2 T. lemon juice

Mix, cover and simmer half an hour. Skim off fat.

Add 6-8 small onions, simmer another 15 minutes. Add 3 sliced carrots and 3 cut up potatoes and simmer 20-30 minutes more, until meat and veggies are fork tender. Just before serving, thrown in some snipped parsley—an ingredient rarely encountered at truck stops but nice just the same.

Amie’s Sidenote: Because I just can’t with lamb, I’m also offering a not-to-be-missed vegetarian favorite.

SKILLET MAC & CHEESE

Makes 4 servings

• 2 c. uncooked elbow macaroni

• 2 T butter

• 1 medium sweet onion, diced

• 3 or 4 large, unpeeled tomatoes, cut into ¼” pieces

• Salt & pepper

• 1 c. grated sharp cheddar

• ¼ c. grated Parmesan (optional)

Cook the macaroni according to package directions. Drain but don’t rinse. Melt butter in a large skillet and sauté the onion over medium heat for 2-3 minutes. Add the tomatoes. Cook until onions turn golden brown. Add S&P to taste. Add the cooked macaroni and cheddar over medium-low till the cheese is melted. Sprinkle with Parmesan if desired.

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Amie’s Endnotes

In case you were wondering, the dude infatuated with 18-wheelers was my dad. The obsession ran deep: his old Saab was equipped with a CB radio permanently tuned to Channel 19, the trucker’s channel. We even had a base station at the house; my handle was “Island Girl.” My dad never obtained the Commercial Driver License he’d put on his bucket list, but he did manage to drive a friend’s semi once.

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May all your bucket list dreams come true!

Your Island Girls,

Amie & Karyl

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