Christmas 2013 - The Second Time Around

Yesterday morning, we gathered at Michelle's house to have our second celebration of Christmas.  Michelle's stepdaughter Ella was not available to this part of the family until yesterday.  She will now be with Robert and Michelle for the rest of the holiday.  That kid has more frequently flyer miles than many traveling executives. There were lots of presents and lots of smiles.  As would be expected, Little Ben appeared to enjoy playing with the boxes and wrapping just about as much as the presents.

We gathered again at 2:00 PM for a belated Christmas dinner with family and friends.  Since we had already done turkey, Michelle decided to cook Italian.  Michelle provided lasagna and Sheila brought chicken picatta. The chicken piccata was particularly good.  The night before when Sheila decided to make it, I asked her if we had white wine for the sauce.  She said that we did.  No problem.  But yesterday when she was cooking, I examined the bottle she was going to use.  It was the last half bottle of my home-brewed sweet white that I was saving for sipping purposes.  Oh well, it went for a good cause.  Michelle made tiramisu from scratch.  It was airy, fluffy and decadent.  I only had a tablespoon but that was enough for me to declare it delicious.  It was a good meal in pleasant company.

As we were sitting at the table, I was again reminded of the fact that I may not be around long enough to get my know my grandson Ben or for him to get to know me.  Last year, I left a Christmas letter that hopefully he will read someday.  I think I will do that again this year:

Dear Ben:

This year, aside from the usual toys and paraphernalia, I gave you two silver coins to commemorate your second Christmas with us.  They are not normal circulated coins.  Rather they are .999 pure silver. Next year, I hope to give you two on your second birthday and three on your third Christmas and so on in the years following.  If I continue doing this, after a while, there should be enough money for you to do something nice for yourself when you are old enough to appreciate it.

There are lessons in my gift that I hope to pass on.  Two ounces of pure silver cost a little over fifty dollars at spot market prices last week. I am betting that, no matter what happens to the U.S. currency in the future, those coins will at least hold most of their residual value if not increase in value considerably. The two cute plastic toys we bought for you cost about the same. Granted, you will have a wonderful time pushing a ball popping lawnmower around the living room and chasing the electronic sensor equipped talking cat around the house.  But, the minute you opened the packaging, their value dropped to a couple of bucks at a garage sale. If you have extra money, there is nothing wrong with exchanging part of it for a little fun. But, that must always be tempered with the necessity of acquiring things of lasting value. A lot of so-called wealth today is nothing more than marks on a piece of paper or bits of information in a computer.  This kind of "wealth" can be declared by fiat and just as easily disappear by fiat.  

As we sat around the dining room table, we were discussing the fact that you have a mild case of anemia.  I shared the fact that I did too when I was a child but mine was due to insufficient protein in my diet. We were that poor for a while when I was a baby.  Things like that are hard to imagine but they happened.  My father, your great grandfather Kumpe, had badly disfigured legs due to rickets, another childhood disease due to malnutrition.  That kind of poverty leaves a lasting mark on the people who experience it.

Later, I watched my mom and dad, your great-grandmother and grandfather Kumpe, do without the normal pleasures of life to buy land, another investment that always has residual value.  They were badly taken advantage of in many of those transactions but that was the way of things in their time and they didn't have the means to fight back.  But, they were able to endure it because they had suffered far worse.  If there was food on the table, a roof over their heads, a fire to keep them warm and clothes enough to go out, they figured they were ahead of the game from where they had been.

It is mistake to assume that the heirs of a family farm are simply given an asset.  Every generation has to pay its dues to the land to deserve its stewardship.  As a child and young adult, I worked the farm hauling hay, feeding cattle, doing vaccinations and castrations and the  million and one other things that are necessary to make it work.  When other kids were staying after school for activities, I came home, threw a few bales of hay and cooked supper for mom and dad.  There was nobody else to do it.  In order to pay for the land, mom and dad both had to work in the factories in Ft. Smith.  So, I came up as rural latch key kid. My childhood was not  unpleasant, just lonely.  I grew up more in the company of books, television and radio than other children.

I paid my dues for the land again after dad died.  I was the sales manager for a large computer company in St. Louis when dad passed and the company was already talking to me about my next move up. St. Louis had been a tough assignment.  However, I had acquired powerful friends in management and proven that I could make it in the big city.  But, after dad's passing, mom could not be left completely alone.  I had to be nearby. She wanted to live alone and think that she was independent but she also needed somebody close by to pick up the pieces and keep her on as even a keel as could be managed. That kind of family duty can't be phoned in.  So, I took a lower position with another computer company that would let me stay in Eastern Oklahoma.  My career in the computer industry never came back.

You may someday inherit a little bit of that land.  That remains to be seen. I will not do to you what my Mom did to me.  She lived in poverty to pass the land on to me when I would have much preferred for her to sell part or all of it so that she could lived in some degree of comfort in her old age.  Dad would have wanted it that way.  But, she just couldn't part with it.  But, whether you inherit a bit of it or not,  I hope that your great grandmother and grandfather Kumpe's example of  sacrifice to invest things of permanent value will not be lost on you.

Perhaps, the  underlying lesson here is that every man of substance has three sets of duties.  The first is to his God. The second is to his family. The third is to his country.  You have to do your duty (pay your dues) to each for your life to be in balance.  Men who shirk these duties have no honor.  There is no guarantee that you will be successful by the world's definition even if you do your best in each of these duties.  But, I can tell you from personal experience that if you do, you will be able to sleep peacefully at night and not be ashamed of the man you see in the mirror the next morning.

Merry Christmas Little Ben.  God Bless.

Grandpa Bill

Christmas 2013 - Quiet and Cozy

This year, we are having the kind of blended family Christmas that more and more families celebrate. Since our son-in-law Robert's daughter, Ella, could not be with us on Christmas day, we postponed opening gifts for the children and for some of the adults until later this week.  So, Sheila and I were alone this morning when opened our gifts to each other.

Among other things, Sheila gave me the KaBar cane that I have already talked about and a video backup monitor system for my car.  She very carefully researched the latter and bought the best rated system that could be found.  Unfortunately, she didn't notice that most of the people rating it drove RV's and big pickups.  It's a wonderful system but there is just no place to mount a seven inch video monitor on the dashboard or anyplace else in my car.  Santa had already brought me a new tablet computer which I began using as soon as it arrived from the Dell elves workshop and a new patch elbow corduroy sport jacket which was hanging over my office door with a bow on the garment bag.  Michelle gave me a package of Jamaican Blue coffee obtained there on their recent trip the Caribbean that was almost worth its weight in gold.  I broke out the french press and made two cups after dinner.  I can see why it is so expensive.  Coffee may never be the same for me again.  It was that good.

Sheila had been complaining that she couldn't see her watches so I bought her two. One is a fancy number by some designer or other with shiny bits here and there.  The other, which she immediately called "the ugly watch," can be read across the room.  I didn't think it was ugly at all. It's just a good sized, plain faced watch.  I hope it grows on her.  At least she can read it without her glasses. I also bought her, as a gag of sorts, a belly dance outfit and an instruction DVD with some simple moves appropriate for a person of our time in life. She saw right through me (and the outfit) and immediately declared that I had bought that gift for myself.  Santa was in a boot mood this year when he thought of her so she received a couple of pairs that she normally wouldn't have bought for herself.  Santa also brought Sheila a large, solid wood, wall hung jewelry cabinet for her substantial and ever growing collection of costume jewelry.  I suspect we will wind up redecorating the bedroom when I install it this weekend.

We headed to Gwenda's house around 9:30. Gwenda is Sheila's older sister who lives in Broken Arrow. Sheila had spent much of the evening Christmas Eve cooking dressing, sweet potatoes and the rest of the fixings.  When we arrived, we cooked a small ten pound turkey that was just about right to feed our small crew.  Around 11:00, Michelle, Robert and Little Ben arrived.  By that time, the house smelled of roasting bird, baking pies and other good things.

It was a quiet little meal but a good one.  The food was wonderful.  Little Ben was shuffled around the table from one person to another while everyone got a chance to eat.  We took a little break to open a few presents from the kids and Gwenda and then began working on dessert.  Gwenda had baked a German Chocolate Pie and a Pecan Pie.  She is the queen of dessert in our family and she lived up to her title again this year.  While I only at a sliver of each they were sinfully delicious.  Michelle baked a vintage recipe chocolate cream pie.  It was almost a culinary history lesson.  Everything made from scratch with the real, old fashioned ingredients.  It was very good as well. By the time we finished our dessert, it was mid-afternoon.  Little Ben had missed his nap and the adults were all half asleep due to the effects of the turkey.

Our second Christmas celebration still awaits us in a few days.  But, this one was special.  It was a lot like the Christmases when I grew up.  Just close family, a good meal, a few presents and space to relax, bond and appreciate each other. A good time was had by all.         

Bill Does Dallas (or maybe Dallas does Bill)

I just got back from a short business trip to the DFW area. I have some suggestions for the DFW Chamber of Commerce, city officials, etc.  (1) Just blow US 75 up and start from scratch.  When you've got it so screwed up and confused that GPS won't work, it is FUBAR. (2) Make it a requirement that every innkeeper, no matter where in the third world they came from, know enough about their neighborhood to give directions to their establishment. (3) Make it a requirement that all inkeepers have some idea of what constitutes a reasonable hotel room in someplace other than the third world.

I started down mid-afternoon Monday and had a pleasant, uneventful drive all the way to McKinney.  I had reservations at the Ramada in McKinney.  I followed the Mapquest directions to the letter, until they started making no sense despite the fact that my GPS showed me exactly where I was supposed to be.   So for the next hour, I made circle after circle on the horrible service roads adjoining 75, consulting my GPS and actually talking to the Middle Eastern hotel clerk at the Ramada.  At one point after I described where I was, this gentlemen said, "I have no idea where you are, but I don't know much about the neighborhood."  My GPS showed me to be within half a mile of his establishment but no signs were visible and obviously, the road directions being given to my GPS did not match whatever had happened to 75 since the data was uploaded. I finally gave up, begged the guy to cancel my confirmation and decided to stay at one of the hotels I could see.

By the time I checked into the Super 8 in McKinney, I was not a particularly happy camper.  I was greeted

by a stylish, very European teenaged girl who checked me in.  So far so good.  When I got the room, I settled down and tried to turn on the TV. Remote didn't work.  So, back to the desk for that. I settled in to relax, drink a soda from the lobby machine and regroup.  By bedtime, the room was getting chilly.  I turned on the heating unit and the room was soon stifling.  When I tried to adjust the temperature, there was no knob.  I adjusted it with a Leatherman tool on the stub.  The walls were thin.  I slept fitfully.

The next morning, I began my morning routine only to find that there was no mirror over the bathroom sink. Someone had obviously stolen it and that fact had gone unnoticed.  I shaved in front of the dresser.  About halfway through my shower, the requested hand shower (which is standard equipment in handicap accessible rooms) sprouted a leak and was semi useless.

On my way out, I decided to take advantage of the "continental breakfast."  I wonder what continent they were talking about.  I would up having a packaged Honeybun and half a cup of regular coffee.  Of course, at eight o'clock in the morning, they had not yet filled the decaf container.   When I got to my car, there was a layer of dust so thick on the windshield that it took seven or eight spritzes from windshield washers to get it to the point that I could see to drive.

The moment I left McKinney, things started looking up.  By now, I knew several miles of the service roads on 75 by heart.  75 itself was a parking lot. So, I took the El Dorado Parkway across to Frisco and after a very pleasant little morning drive through the suburbs arrived at my meeting on time.

The Tavern at StoneBridge Country Club

The meeting turned out to be very pleasant.  After a morning's work, we had a very, very nice lunch at the StoneBridge Country Club.  After lunch, I spent a nice hour or so at their training facility, doing firearms drills on a laser simulator and shooting professional quality airsoft trainers.  The military and many police departments are now using these types of simulators to teach marksmanship and critical decision making skills.  I flunked the shootout test.  The bad buy in a traffic stop gone sour got off two shots before I fired.  Both of my shots were kill shots but unless the bad guy had missed entirely, it would have been too late. The whole thing might have take ten seconds. My host also has long gun training capability and I got a kick out of shooting the full auto airsoft AR-15 that is just about as close to the real thing as you are going to get.

As good a time as I was having, I had to get back to Tulsa in time for a good night's sleep to be ready for today.  So, I retraced my steps out of Dallas and was home in time for dinner.  The house smelled of good cooking when I arrived.  Sheila was just finishing cooking one of my favorite meals, chicken picatta with oven browned small potatoes and vegetables.  It was a great meal.  So, over all, despite the trials of US 75 and a third world motel, a good time was had by all. 

A Conversation With Little Ben Bob

Sheila and I are babysitting our grandson Little Ben Bob this week.  It has been interesting.  Tonight, Sheila forgot her phone at work and had to go back to get it.  She set Ben up in his high chair, warmed his food for him and left me in charge until she got back.  So far, so good.

After a few bites and a few minutes, BB decided to play one of his favorite games, feed the doggie.  The house chihuahua, Jerry Garcia, has learned that if he hangs around the highchair, Ben will feed him.  That wouldn't be too bad if Ben didn't insist on letting the dog take the food from his hand ... the same hand he is feeding himself with.  And worse, he sometimes offers a tidbit to the dog, changes his mind and then eats it himself .... after the dog has licked it.

The first time he fed the dog this evening, I said gently but firmly, "Ben don't do that."  He looked shocked, whimpered a bit and went on eating.  A moment later, he did it again.  This time I said very firmly, "No Ben.  Don't do that."  He immediately burst into tears and kept crying for about five minutes.  He would look at the dog, look at his food, look at me and then begin crying again. He went through several rounds of this.  If I ignored him and looked away, he quit crying.  If I tried to talk to him he would look at the dog, look at his food and then cry at me. He seemed to be saying, "I WANT TO FEED THE DOG."

After the first three or four rounds of this, I became a little concerned.  But, he was breathing OK, was the right temp to the touch, smelled OK and didn't seem to be in any kind of discomfort other than emotional. It seemed to me that he was just unhappy that I had interrupted his favorite supper time game.

So, I said aloud, "Fine Bud.  I've got more patience than you've got energy to cry."  I then proceeded to let him go.  He would whimper, look at the dog, look at the food, look at me and then do it all over again.  He would stop for a while but as soon as I looked at him, it would start all over.  He did that on and off for about half an hour.

About that time, his Mom called.  After she chewed me out for a while for letting him cry, I put her on speaker phone to talk to Ben.  He immediately smiled his biggest smile, watched the phone in rapt fascination and became a very happy baby.  She spoke for just a few moments but that was all it took.  His mood was over.  He then finished his supper and proceeded to be his normal, happy baby, self.

I guess I am old school.  We believed that baby's were little people.  If they did something dangerous or harmful you stopped them and warned them not to do it again.  If the baby decided to cry about it, you made sure there was nothing else wrong and then let them cry until they got tired of crying.  I guess there are more modern methods these days.

A Strange But Sweet Little Thanksgiving

As you grow older, your expectations for the holidays change.  For some, crowds are just annoying.  A hundred screaming kids and a bunch of people, many of whom  you barely know, are just not your cup of tea.  Others can't see why they should be breaking bread with people they would never choose to be around socially just because of some accident of familial relation.  To these folks, holidays are about close family and dear friends. And finally, there are folks who just don't have a place to go. Their family and friends have passed on or moved away or are in some way estranged. These are the folks who eat Thanksgiving dinner in restaurants.  I have been told by some who have experienced it that Thanksgiving dinner in a restaurant is just about the loneliest event you will ever experience.  Until this year, Sheila and I had never eaten Thanksgiving dinner at a restaurant.  But, for reasons more complicated that I need go into here, we wound up eating out this year and it was an absolutely delightful experience.

We met Sheila's sister Daphene and her husband Tommy at Jincy's in Qualls, Cherokee Nation, USA shortly before 1:00 pm Thanksgiving Day. Reservations are required and there are three sittings, 11:00 o'clock, 1:00 o'clock and 3:00 o'clock.  Our reservations were for the 1:00 o'clock sitting.  As we arrived, we met Principal Chief of the Cherokee Nation, Bill John Baker, leaving from the earlier sitting.

Seating is family style and so is the service.  We were seated and waited while the 1:00 o'clock buffet line was set up.  We recognized a few faces from our last trip over and spoke to them briefly.  As a matter of fact, the whole crowd was friendly. When the meal was ready, the proprietor Debbie Rucker came out and announced "We say grace here over our meal." She said it in a sweet but firm Okie voice that gently proclaimed, "You're in my place in the Oklahoma hills and this is our heritage. If you don't like it, get over it."  God bless her.  I'm sure her ancestor Jincy would have been proud of her. Grace was offered by a local businessman who sounded exactly my Baptist ancestors.  I've heard that prayer or its equivalent a thousand times and offered it many times myself.  But, it was still sweet and comforting to hear it again.  It gave me the feeling that even though I was in the midst strangers for the most part, I was still at home in the unique culture I love so dearly.  I have nothing but pity and disgust for those self hating Okies who turn their back on or worse make fun of their rich cultural heritage.  

I really don't know how to describe the food.  It was real home cooking done right by good cooks.  The turkey, ham, mashed potatoes and gravy, dressing, sweet potatoes, green beans, corn and pinto beans were all perfect.  The best way I can describe it is to say that it tasted like my mom and grandma's cooking when they got it right.  For dessert, I had just a sliver of pecan pie, chocolate pie and huckleberry cobbler.  The pecan pie is the best I have ever tasted. Sorry Mom.  Sorry Gwenda.  This is the best. Same with the chocolate pie. Best ever.

After the meal, we sat and talked a while.  Daphene's breast cancer surgery scheduled for this week was the 900 pound elephant in the room.  My wife Sheila is a breast cancer survivor. She and Daphene eventually talked about it.  Daphene shared her feelings about the utter insensitivity and outright boorishness displayed by some people when they find out you have cancer.   Sheila shared some of her experiences. particularly what it is like to live with one breast and a mass of scar tissue.  It was not a conversation for sissies but neither was it morbid.  It was the right talk at the right time in the right place between the right people.

After a while, the crowd began paying their (not insubstantial, thirty bucks a person)

checks and thinning out.  We left after a while, visited a bit more in the parking lot and then called it a day.  My only regret is that I could not arrange for Daphene to get her photo taken with one of the Model A Fords in the parking lot that some of the folks had driven up in.  She wanted to borrow my pistol, hike her leg up on the running board and pose like Bonnie of Bonnie and Clyde. Unfortunately, the folks driving the Model A's got away before we could ask them for permission.  I will make that happen for her yet. Other than that, I wouldn't change a thing.

Little Ben's First Birthday

Michelle, Robert and the doggies all got in on the present
opening.

Sunday was Little Ben Bob's first birthday.  There was a party of course.  There were lots of friends and family present, all adults except for one little boy about BB's age.  There was cake and ice cream and beverages.  I learned that I really like cold "hard cider."  Ben got a lot of presents and was generally cute as can be.  What more can you say? Pics follow:

Little Ben didn't really know what to think about the
cake.  He played with the decorations first. But soon, he
got his very first taste of chocolate and figured out
that this cake thing might be a good deal.

Bill and Sheila's Long Day .... With A Nice Ending

Friday was a sad day.  I had some business at the Sequoyah County Courthouse, straightening out the final details of Mom's estate.  I guess I had been unconsciously putting it off because these were the final details in her passing.  Now, the process is over.  We drove from the courthouse to the humble little house that she loved so dearly.  I spent a quiet hour sitting there in a good recliner in the place that my Dad's chair had always occupied.

My cousin and friend Jim Brannon died last week.  The Funeral was Friday afternoon at the Gans Assembly of God Church.  Remarkably, even in passing Jim gave something to us all.  Instead of preaching the usual funeral sermon, the young preacher paid his respects to Jim and the family and then preached.  He preached quietly but powerfully about the hope
that we can have in Jesus Christ.  I am a Calvinist so I seldom say things like this but I felt the presence of the Holy Spirit.  And then after the sermon, a lovely little Pentecostal lady stood up and sang.  She gave a performance that would have been at home in any recording studio.  Her voice was sweet and powerful.  And again, full of hope.  I suspect that the musicians in heaven will be mostly Pentecostals. 

After the funeral, we drove back to Sallisaw to see Sheila's sister who was recently diagnosed with breast cancer.  She will soon be facing surgery and radiation treatments.  As we were leaving, Daphene admitted that she had been feeling "a little blue" and that we always seemed to just show up at the right time.  It was a nice compliment.

As I headed out of town, I decided to stop at a pawn shop or two and inquire about the guns that were recently stolen from our farm.  One remarkably candid pawnbroker told me that some of the local pawnbrokers do not record all of their purchases with law enforcement.  While I was grateful for that piece of information, I was also coldly furious that local law enforcement was not all over those folks.  Sequoyah County is not so big that local LEO's can't make life unbearably tough for a pawnbroker or junk shop dealer that plays fast and loose with stolen merchandise.  That meant I could not rely on the  pawn shop intake reports the local LEO's receive and I would have to begin paying a visit to every pawnbroker and junk shop in the region.  The guns that were taken were only worth a couple of hundred dollars but they have great sentimental value to me since they were gifts from my father.  I want them back and intend to find them or the identity of the person who took them.

After all of that, I was in kind of a black mood but Sheila was ready for an adventure.  She had heard about this fabulous little restaurant out in the middle of nowhere on the west side of Lake Tenkiller near Tahlequah.  But, she couldn't remember the name.  We wasted several minutes trying to find data coverage for our phones in Sallisaw before giving up on finding it online.  Sheila then called her childhood friend Jackie (Tullos) McKenzie to get directions.  Jackie is a semi pro lady bass fisherman who knows Lake Tenkiller like her own backyard.  She quickly put us on the right track.

However, getting from I-40 west to Qualls, Oklahoma is another matter entirely.  First, we drove one exit too far and got off at Webber Falls, on the wrong side of the river.  We then had to backtrack and cross the river again on 40 east to get back to Gore, where Oklahoma Highway 100 North takes you up the west side of the Lake until you reach "Indian Road" which you follow until you reach Burnt Cabin Marina where you turn off the blacktop onto a gravel road that climbs up through the Cherokee Nation Game Management Area.  After seven or eight miles of that you know that you have arrived at Jincy's Kitchen because there is once again blacktop on the roads.

I seldom say this about a restaurant but .... Jincy's Kitchen is an Oklahoma treasure.  A lot of places try to cash in on the country kitsch, home cookin' concept.  Most of them wind up being nothing more than glorified fast food served in a room full of faux antiques nailed to the walls by people who wouldn't know real southern home cooking if you force fed it to them.  I have a high standard for these things and I have to say, Jincy's is the real deal.

The building is the original Jincy's Mercantile that was built by the current owner Debbie Rucker's great grandmother in 1935. The interior of Jincy's looks just like what it was, an old fashioned Mercantile store.  The shelves are still there and the walls are lined with things Garrett's Snuff glasses and little red Prince Albert cans.  It smells like your mother's kitchen. There are no fake antiques and corny kitsch in this place.  I remember these old country stores and this one is the real deal right down the the wood stove and flooring worn silky smooth by decades of wear.  The building was used as the set for the general store in the movie "Where the Red Fern Grows." 

You don't come to Jincy's if you are in a hurry.  Everything is cooked to order and they will warn you that the fried chicken, which is cooked in a black iron skillet, takes at least half an hour.  It is worth the wait.  Sheila had the chicken fried steak.  I need to mention that they cut their own beef and that it is never frozen.  That chicken fry started out as a piece of good beef not as an over-sized frozen minute steak.  It was the best chicken fried steak I have tasted in decades.  It is even better than the legendary Nelson's Buffeteria chicken fry here in Tulsa.

I had the fried chicken.  It was perfect, old fashioned, southern fried chicken.  It was lightly coated so that you actually tasted the chicken and not the breading.  It was moist, tender and perfectly

seasoned.  From the taste of it, the chicken was fresh as well and had never been frozen.  The mashed potatoes were real, cooked with real butter and evaporated milk.  The gravy was heavy, rich and a perfect compliment.  I also had the pinto beans.  Pinto beans are the mark of a real southern cook.  Few people get them right anymore.  Jincy's beans are perfectly cooked and lightly seasoned so that you taste the beans instead of the broth.  And, they were freshly cooked.  I don't know how Debbie Rucker stole my grandmother's yeast roll recipe but by golly she had it.  The roll was freshly cooked, light, airy and tasted exactly like our family recipe. The portions are generous and you may not have room for dessert.  But, don't let that stop you from ordering it to go.  Debbie's chocolate pie with real meringue on top is also authentic and sinfully delicious.


What kind of people eat at Jincy's?  Last night, there were two hunters who had spent the day in the nearby game preserve.  There was also a small group of senior citizens from Owasso.  And, a couple from Tahlequah and their bank officer son from Tulsa drove down in a 1935 Model A Ford.  And of course, there we were, a limping old Tulsa lawyer and his ever adventuresome biz school grad wife.   

We chatted with Debbie for a moment before we left.  When I told her the food tasted just like Mom's cooking, she beamed.  Debbie is justifiably proud of her place and its heritage.  Jincy's Kitchen is as much an icon of Oklahoma culture as the nearby mansion at Park Hill.  The building alone is an ad hoc museum of depression era life.  The food and the generous attitude it is served with are living re-creations of a vital part of the best of Okie culture.  The experience is well worth the drive.

Here is a link to Jincy's Facebook page:  Jincy's Kitchen.