Nothing Tastes the Same
A father and daughter drive the Appalachian trail in search of barbecue, a shared sense of what it means to be black in America, and each other
by Rahawa Haile
My father is not what one might call a discerning eater. He orders his steaks well done, reveres Olive Garden’s pasta, and opts for Starbucks even in New York City; his favorite Chinese restaurant is P.F. Chang’s. After a year of not seeing one another for logistical reasons, we are enjoying a late brunch at Atlanta Breakfast Club, a midtown eatery known for its Southern cooking and long weekend lines. My father orders a cheese omelet and a large orange juice. He avoids drinking local water whenever possible and repeatedly asks me how I can be certain it’s safe. I laugh at first, suspecting his recent travels abroad have gotten to him, but I’m not exactly in a position to promote America’s ability to provide clean water to its blackest cities. As we wait for our meal, fashionable diners snap photographs of their pancakes and an unseen child bangs gleefully on the upright piano near the restaurant’s front door. Sharp laughter and the smell of fried chicken even out the atmosphere, tenderizing the cacophony. This will not be the last time I remind myself to look around and take a mental snapshot of ease.
At our table, my father is nothing but serious. I avert my eyes and tear large, anxious chunks from my biscuits every time he mutters the words “Hillary” and “corporate fascism” in the same breath. After raising me in Florida and then bouncing around [REDACTED], he has settled for the past few years in Central America. He is a secretive man who has been deeply political his entire life, and Trump’s win stands as but one in a long list of bitter disappointments. I don’t have this conversation in me right now. I blow on my coffee and offer anemic platitudes, hollow words along the lines of “we have to keep fighting.” He sucks his teeth in Dismissive African Parent, an underappreciated form of martial arts. The more he talks, the faster I shovel what’s left of the peach cobbler French toast into my mouth. It’s delicious, but honestly it could be anything. I have been stress-eating for months along with the rest of this country. Now is not the time to stop.
My father and I met in Georgia this April to take a road trip from Atlanta to Washington, DC, in an attempt to bond over barbecue and scenic byways after 10 years of growing apart. I’d hoped we would find our way back to each other while crisscrossing the southern half of the Appalachian Trail, which I’d thru-hiked the previous year from Georgia to Maine. The experience had been transformative and filled with the sort of beauty I wanted to share with the man who first instilled a love of the outdoors in me at a young age. The road trip would be our first extended journey together as adults. A long conversation fueled by spectacular backdrops, good food, and a shared sense of dread for the Horn of Africa.
more (good read)
https://www.eater.com/2017/6/12/15747610/appalachian-trail-atlanta-georgia-barbecue
= new reply since forum marked as read
Better watch out or you could end up "profound calorie deficit"-ed. 
