I made a decision about eating when I got up this morning. #1…don’t eat more than Bernie. #2…no sweets. As far as not eating more than Bernie, I did pretty well in the morning. He ate four large pretzels in the car; I ate two. He had four crackers with ham salad. I had three. Good job, me!
We stopped to see the museum of the pony express riders. It was so very interesting.
As we were leaving, I asked a woman where was a good place to eat. She said, “Lucy’s, just fifteen miles down the road in Sedgwick. “She has all home-made food.” I was so excited. Home-made. So we pulled off the highway at Sedgwick and low and behold, there she was. She had a red roof with big white letters: Lucy’s Place Cafe.
On the windows were painted words: “Meet your friends at Lucy’s”, “Welcome to Ludy’s Place.” We went in. The place was small, had a number of booths against the front and side of the restaurant and a row of benches either side of tables down the middle. There was a counter with a few stools. There was a sign on a wall that read: “Watch out for the pits in the cherry pie. Sorry!” I don’t know if that disclaimer would really hold up in court.
A waitress came up to our table as soon as we sat. “Our special is hamburger steak or chicken fried steak.” Bernie ordered the hamburger steak and keeping with my promise to myself, I ordered a half order of the chicken fried steak.
Immediately after taking our orders, the waitress brought us a tray of choices of salads in little sherbet bowls. Bernie chose pasta salad, which he let me taste. I recognized the mayonnaise and ketchup dressing my mom used to make. I chose the cucumber with chopped tomatoes and onions in vinegar and sugar dressing. It was great. I felt really at home.
My plate was definitely smaller than Bernie’s which made me feel very proud of myself.
The food looked amazing. “Wow,” I said to Bernie. “I haven’t had home made powdered potatoes like this in years. And the gravy is just like the kitchen bouquet gravy my mother used to make. The corn tastes like the canned corn my Grandma used to serve.”
On the table, in the basket that had the menus in it, there were books people could read in case the service might be slow. I just remember the name of one: “If Life Was Fair, Horses Would Ride Half the Time.”
There were lots of people coming and going. It was definitely a favorite place to eat in middle Nebraska. Bernie and I started to get up to leave so that some of the folks standing at the door could sit down. Our waitress came running over. “You two sit back down. You didn’t have your cake yet.” I wondered if the cake was sweet. I was relieved to see that it was a lemon cake with just a little frosting. And it was small, maybe 2″ x 2″ x 1″. “I didn’t bake this cake for nothing,” she said. I think our waitress was Lucy.
When we finally got up to leave, a man sitting at one of the middle bench tables and who had a florescent green bandaid on his knee, asked if we were sure that we were done eating. “Whatever you do, don’t leave before you get your cake,” I said.
After we got outside, I took a picture of the place. I said to Bernie, “Did I miss the sign that said, ‘Last chance to eat for the next 300 miles’?”