“It’s self-service now, Miss Martha,” he’d said, handing her a plastic apron. “Guests scan their own menus, pay at the table. But the porch… the porch still needs a soul.”
“Machine’s broken,” Martha lied smoothly. “You looked like you needed a minute.” cracker barrel front porch self service
He laughed—a real laugh, the kind that starts in the chest—and scooped up the toddler. Together they sat in two rockers, the man coloring in the little circles next to Pancakes and Scrambled Eggs while the toddler chewed on a crayon. “You looked like you needed a minute
It was the third Tuesday of the month, which meant two things: the arthritis in Martha’s knuckles was singing the blues, and the Cracker Barrel parking lot would be full of out-of-state plates. She didn’t mind either. The pain was a familiar neighbor, and the tourists meant the rockers on the front porch would be taken. She didn’t mind either
“Self-service,” she said, placing them on the woman’s knee. “I’m serving myself the pleasure of helping you.”