Of all the Washington, D.C. places to brunch, Tabard Inn excels at being that perfect place of quiet with green vines climbing the brick patio walls, tables nicely spaced, and warm, homemade doughnuts as the (expected) immediate order that arrive with whipped cream and berries.

(Note: This is the last of eight posts from this road trip. You might start at the first, second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, or seventh post.)

Karen ordered French toast as we sat in the garden (a good way to end the pancake quest),

and I had the Eggs Benedict with housemade Tasso ham (harder to find in Brooklyn) as we recalled all our favorite moments of the week on the road.

We then set out for the Dupont Circle farmers’ market, watching the usual stranger interactions along the way (intersections are awkward in this place),

and crossed the circle to the busy vendors selling peaches and goat cheese.

At a great loss to Miami, my wonderful friend Holly (at right) now lives in the area, and she guided us to her favorite sellers and their finest varieties, bubbling over with her infectious zeal for local food.

And, just a few hours later, we arrived back in Brooklyn.

I stood with Karen (after she helped me unpack the car) and we smiled at the thousands of miles we had driven together, at the gifts of the road, and stories we’ll tell of our adventures,

especially as only Karen’s suitcases are in focus in this image, ready for the next time the road calls and we answer…

Leaving Atlanta incredibly early on Saturday a few weeks ago, Karen, Kevin, and I pulled into the incredibly local farmers’ market of Carrboro, North Carolina around noon to meet my sister Kassandra and her boyfriend Sean (here, at left).

(Note: This is the seventh of eight posts from this road trip. You might start at the first, second, third, fourth, fifth, or sixth post.)

We found crowder peas and field peas,

beautiful tomatoes, peppers, and cucumbers proudly displayed in individual containers from one of the many farmers in the allowed fifty-mile radius of this town within Chapel Hill that set up at the market.

Walking over to the Weaver Street Market food co-op, Kassandra and Sean looked for groceries (they both live in a neighboring area),

and Karen found the Carrboro raw truck to begin neutralizing the roadfood of the past week.

Carrboro is generally good at nurturing health, and Kass and Karen were serious about filling their plates with good food as we sat near happy dogs hoping for dropped food and children learning how to walk,

(this is Karen’s plate) before hugging Kassandra and Sean goodbye and continuing on to an underground Indian dinner in Washington, D.C.

That night, we arrived at an Indian dinner orchestrated by a Jain,

that one of my favorite people, Nina, told us about (I surprised her here with the camera flash),

—and learned that Nina has different spices in her spice box than our host. I actually learned a great deal about making a spice box of one’s own as a way to indicate heritage.

The courses continued, interspersed with commentary on the background on this cooking style, but I was too happy to listen, surrounded by very good friends,

and knowing their friendship, like the bread passed throughout, are what anchors me, wherever I am.

Pausing to remark that sometimes this city surprises us, Karen, Kevin, and I headed back to the quirky Tabard Inn, where we prepared for the final leg of the drive back to Brooklyn…

From New Orleans a few Fridays ago, Karen and I drove through Alabama, deliberating upon which roadfood stop to make, and deciding that fried chicken was the priority.

(Note: This is the sixth of eight posts from this road trip. You might start at the first, second, third, fourth, or fifth post.)

Corn muffins arrived immediately after we chose a table, and I smiled at the option of buttermilk by the glass on the menu at Martin’s in Montgomery (and applauded the choice to only serve whole milk).

We both ordered fried chicken, which is the thing to do here, and my three veg (fried green tomatoes, black-eyes peas, and creamed corn) filled the large plate. I closed my eyes, thought about crusts, and knew we had made the right roadfood choice.

(I also have a hunch the kitchen serves buttermilk because they use it to brine the chicken.)

Very tempted by the bread pudding dessert of the day, we drove away quickly, towards thunderstorms and the the Atlanta airport to pick up a mystery guest.

At my parents’ house that night, I tried to convince my grandfather (who can walk it out) to demonstrate his new tai chi skills.

He declined—graciously, of course—and we laughed that night as we recounted adventures from the trip so far…

After roping a dummy steer the night before, everyone went to sleep early so that we could rise before dawn and head to the zoo,

where Karen’s uncle Steve (also known as El Hefe Mucho at the San Antonio Zoo) has created a really special place that feels much more like walking among the animals. These below were skittish as the light began to steal over the trees,

And Karen and I watched a joey emerge from a mother kangaroo,

amazed to watch the little kangaroo stretch its legs and hop about its business.

Then Karen’s uncle joined us and directed our wanderings,

taking us up close to the elephant being fed,

(elephants are hairier than you think! I discovered while petting this one—thanks to Karen for taking this picture so early in the morning,)

and ushering us inside the hippo exhibit with another keeper,

that we later saw from the outside as a visitor usually does. It’s a beautiful space for these very intense animals, and fun to watch the bright fish swim near the windows.

Reluctantly leaving San Antonio, Karen and I headed out of Texas by way of a small diner far off the highway,

where the pancake quest continued,

I ordered biscuits and sausage gravy,

and then we ordered a slice of each type of pie:

coconut with crunchy bits on top of the meringue,

and chocolate silk, acknowledging that pie for breakfast is an excellent thing.

Driving through Houston we found a building of air,

and we watched as the landscape shifted into the blue of the bayou,

arriving at the famous Columns Hotel in New Orleans that Thursday night.

A meandering walk took us past a cluster of pastel buildings,

a workshop with music as loud as the creative energy waves that rolled over us as we paused,

leading us to happen upon good food and great cocktails (we started with Sazeracs, of course, and then discovered the classic French 75) at Coquette.

The next morning, we recalled sitting on the lively porch for a late round of champagne as we took the stairs at the grand old hotel down to breakfast,

before meeting up with my friend Brian, a wonderful ambassador of community and the goodness of local lore, as we continued our tour of the Deep South, full of things and people that are keepers…

A few Wednesdays ago, heading out of Truth or Consequences, New Mexico with Karen, we drove to Las Cruces to the wonderful Nellie’s Cafe.

One of the rules of the road is to eat breakfast, and there is a happy energy at Nellie’s that translates to the food.

I ordered my pork and eggs with both red and green chile (ask for “Christmas” when asked which chile you prefer), and then we set out for the long, straight road through West Texas to Karen’s uncle’s place in San Antonio.

I have been to Austin many times, but this was my first time in San Antonio, and it was like stepping into a dream—the horse Karen’s aunt had showed that day (this is a friend walking her) had braids and matching socks,

and we went to go see the bull, our shadows tall in the intense heat of the late afternoon.

The animals weren’t overly excited to see us, but I could see why Karen loves visiting her aunt and uncle here.

One of my favorite parts of the house is the shower handle in the guest bathroom. Yes, that’s a pair of pliers (Dave, this deserves to be in your shower handle research collection), and it’s in keeping with the way Karen’s uncle and aunt roll.

Earlier, as we updated them on our driving progress in the afternoon, Karen’s uncle paraphrased a rodeo line and told us to “drive it [the highway] like we stole it.”

It’s my new mantra.

And so, when Karen related my story about learning to gator rope as a teenager, somehow, her uncle loosened up his best rope, gave me a quick refresher course, and trusted me with trying to rope his dummy steer,

helping me turn my wrist,

and finally, I roped that dummy steer, determined to drive it like I stole it from here on out…

Last three images courtesy of the lovely Karen Barbarossa.