In Plant City, Back in the Middle of Somewhere
Wow, friends, we have a great new place to share with you! In between the white sand beaches of the Gulf of Mexico and the Mouse Monstrosity that is Orlando, there is a small slice of Americana called Plant City, Florida. Before we took off for South America, we got to spend about a week there sampling Floridian delicacies and taking part in the local culture, and we can tell you, in the words of local dignitary Steve Smith, that Plant City is “in the middle of somewhere.” From Interstate 4, just take any of the signs marked Thonotosassa (a name only Floridians can pronounce), ” Strawberry milkshakes here!” or “Dinosaur World – Exit now!”
Any of those exits will take you to this little city, the city where we grew up, the land that raised us. A land of fried chicken and collard greens, high school football, train tracks, Mexican migrant workers, red lipstick-ed beauty queens, Baptist preachers baptizing the damned in bathtubs at the local fair, school buses on monster wheels, and strawberry fields forever.
It’s the plain truth that being back in the United States was a bit of reverse culture shock for us. Has everything here always been so BIG? The trucks, the stores, the people, the pure vastness of the land. After nearly a year of cramming into buses, trains, and sidewalks in countries that could only wish for the same ability to sprawl, I thought: what a gift, something we take entirely for granted. Room to breathe, room to move.
I have to see a thing a thousand times before I see it once.
― Thomas Wolfe, You Can’t Go Home Again
First stop, we were thrilled to attend our good friends Jessica and Joey’s wedding in the lovely town of Winter Park. We did the usual McDonald wedding protocol — hit up the open bar, break it down to Usher and Bon Jovi, then shuffle awkwardly away when it comes to songs that require actual dancing, and grab multiple slices of wedding cake (my second favorite part of weddings after the look on the groom’s face after he sees his bride — as an aside, my own groom looked like he was sweating and about to yak at our wedding, but we did have AWESOME cake.). These people know our propensities, and they invited us anyway, so thanks guys.
On to Plant City. Consider this your local insider’s guide for the best places to hang out and eat in and around The Winter Strawberry Capital of the world. Our first day in town, we went to the local farmer’s market for lunch at Fred’s Southern Kitchen, better known locally as the Market or just Fred’s, with my dad and grandpa. (Not to be outdone, we ate breakfast there just two days later with Jordan’s grandparents!) The place is owned by Fred Johnson, an old friend of my dad’s). We ate fried chicken, grits, okra and tomatoes, collards, rutabagas, mac and cheese, black eyed peas, sweet potatoes, and cornbread (yes, all of this was on my plate. And I had red velvet cake for dessert. Don’t judge.). Par for the course, I ran into an old high school friend — a girl who married into the Johnson clan — and I admired her baby while my dad caught up with Ms. Evelyn, Fred’s mama. This is Plant City, and this is just one of those places. If you don’t know anyone when you show up, you’ll probably have made some new friends before you leave.
Another serious must-visit when passing anywhere near Plant City is the Parkesdale Farm Market off the interstate. Get the shortcake if it’s in season (December to April), or the milkshake if it’s not. You can also have your picture taken on the strawberry throne and stock up on strawberry preserves or cookies.
If you come to this part of Florida, you must eat Cuban food. Some of our favorites: the Cuban sandwich and deviled crab from Brocato’s, a little shack on the outskirts of Tampa. Perfect with a locally brewed Jai Alai IPA from Cigar City Brewing. (A trip to Cigar City’s tasting room is another worthwhile way to spend an afternoon in Tampa). You could also belly up to the old school cafeteria-style bar at La Teresita for some arroz con pollo (chicken and yellow rice) or puerco asado (roasted pork). To be a bit more classy, you can visit a Tampa classic, the Columbia Restaurant. Their 1905 salad, paella, and sangria are pretty much legendary. For a little something sweet, try the guava pastries (or anything, really) from La Segunda Bakery. They also make divine Cuban bread, handmade and still baked with the traditional palmetto leaf on top (the leaf gives it that split down the middle). We loved living in Atlanta, but Atlanta simply does not do good Cuban food like Tampa does.
Shockingly, we did do something else besides eat while we were home. We’ve been sending postcards while we travel to the third-grade class taught by Jordan’s sister. We went to their school one day to meet them in person, and not to brag, but they were pretty jazzed. As Jordan’s sister said, “you guys are probably the most famous people they know.” We had to meet our adoring public. We showed them pictures from our trip, told them stories, and handed out cookies. The far-and-away winners: the bugs we tried in Vietnam (our favorite thank you note: “Dear Jordan and Skyler, Thank you for coming to our class. Why did you eat bugs?”), the fishy foot massage we got in Cambodia (“They ATE your feet?? Did it tickle?”), and the spare change we brought back from various countries (their crestfallen faces when we explained that holding 1,000 Laotian kip does not make them rich).
Our final weekend, we went back to our alma mater to catch a Gator game with some college friends. Tailgating, staying at a friend’s family place on the Santa Fe river — it was perfect. We didn’t get to hit all of our favorite Gainesville places, but if you’re in the neighborhood, you can’t go wrong with Satchel’s for pizza, Copper Monkey for solid pub food, Mi Apa for Cuban food, or La Tienda for killer tacos.
This is home and home is not something you remember, it is something you see every day and every moment.
― Rick Bragg
All in all, a great couple of weeks in a place where both of our roots go down deep. In Florida’s snowbird society, it’s unusual to find folks with generations of Florida cracker history. Yet our great-grandparents scratched a living out of this inhospitable, hot, mosquito-filled land until they were preached into the sky. My grandfather still manages to coax the most delicious veggies and pineapples out of this sandy soil. It was strange being back and then hitting the road again — when I was younger, it was the place I couldn’t wait to leave, and yet it was as persistent as memory for this entire trip. It was remembering my uncle’s lame jokes as we floated down the Mekong River, listening to bluegrass driving down dusty African roads, being thrilled over the sight of okra at a market in Turkey, and pining for some homemade peach ice cream in the heat of an Indian summer. This place, these people, are the lens through which we’ve viewed everything else on this trip.
