Long ago, Alice and I used to enjoy visiting the Dillard House in Dillard in northeastern Georgia. The Dillard House is famous for a buffet that comes to you. They call it family-style dining; the staff brings you everything all at once: meats, sides, bread. It's family-style in that it's like a Thanksgiving dinner for two (or however many are in your party. The menu is preset, slightly different every day, but extensive. I remember fried and barbecued chicken. I remember excellent cornbread. I remember never being able to finish it all but being allowed to take doggy bags.
They have a motel alongside, which is pretty large. We always crazy-mad loved staying there. While it isn't in the strictest sense in the country, Dillard is a very small town and it's a lot more like the country than we're used to. And the mountains are nearby. Not too far away they have vacation chalets, also excellent and much more private. We very much enjoyed staying there once.
There's also a farm, with sheep and goats and I think one cow. And farm cats. Every time we went, there was a new crop of kittens. They had a way of hanging out at the front door of the restaurant, as if they thought that being ultra-cute was going to get them leftovers out of generous and well-fed patrons of the restaurant. You know what? I think they may have been right!
It was here that Alice and I determined that all kittens should be named Puddin', Button, Punkin or Peanut. And every time we came, a new set of kittens would find themselves saddled, for an hour or two or a day or two, with these names. "Just hand over the fried chicken," I'm sure they were thinking.
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