Sean Dietrich invites us into his quirky collection of small-town cookbooks—hand-bound treasures filled with everything from squirrel recipes to “Bra Burner Casserole.” Between the laughter and the oddities, Sean uncovers something deeper: the way food carries history, identity, and love. From Baptist Crack to his wife’s cherished Junior League recipe, this story reminds us that sometimes the best recipes aren’t just about what’s on the table—they’re about the people who gather around it.

What does a Cracker Barrel logo have to do with war, fate, and a Packard with a hood ornament you can’t unsee? In this unexpected tale about perspective, an old farmer’s steady response to every twist of fortune might just reframe how you see the world—and your inbox. Caps lock optional.

We were newlyweds, living in a grungy apartment. Each morning, I would wake before her. I would pass my morning hours writing poetry on a yellow legal pad, sipping coffee. Mostly, I’d write the kinds of god-awful things you’d expect newlyweds to write. I’m talking painfully corny stuff. I’d leave these poems on slips of paper scattered throughout our apartment for her to find.

Journey with Sharon, a North Georgia waitress, as she shares her transformation from a giftless, treeless childhood to creating unforgettable Christmases. Over a meal, she reveals her family’s struggles, her mother’s passing, and how she and her brother Sweets crafted a heartfelt Christmas with handmade gifts and twenty dollars. This touching story of resilience and the true spirit of Christmas is a testament to the power of family and creativity in the face of adversity.”

Thank you for holding the door for an old woman at Cracker Barrel. You must’ve been fourteen, you were with friends. You were laughing and carrying on when you saw the old woman, pushing a walker. You jogged ahead. You beat her to the door. You held it open. She thanked you. You yes-ma’amed her. And you made my day, kid. My whole day.

A crowded restaurant. The place is full of teenagers. Everyone is on their phones. Nobody is talking. I am here with my cousin’s 13-year-old son. He is playing on his phone when he asks, “What was it like before smartphones?” “It was different,” I answer. “Very different.”

About a year ago. I met her in a hospital room. I arrived early, with my Scrabble game in tow.