A Piedmont Porchlight Story by Ol’ Big Jim & His Faithful Scribe

It was a Tuesday. And that mattered a great deal at the Gateway Restaurant, because Tuesday meant meatloaf, and meatloaf at the Gateway was not merely food. It was testimony.

Paul and Mary Ruth Dickerson slid into their usual booth with the careful choreography of people who had been married forty-two years and no longer needed to discuss who sat where. Paul faced the window. Mary Ruth faced the room. This arrangement had prevented at least three arguments and one regrettable incident involving a waitress and a slice of coconut cream pie back in 1998.

“Forty-two years,” Paul said, unfolding his napkin like a man handling a document of historical importance.

Mary Ruth nodded. “I told you it wouldn’t kill you.”

The meatloaf was already working its way toward them in spirit, if not yet in fact. You could smell it. Onion. Pepper. Something else nobody had ever successfully identified, though several theories existed and one had been banned from polite conversation.

Behind the counter, Dottie Goodman was reconsidering her life choices.

Dottie had been on her feet since dawn, her coffee had betrayed her halfway through the morning rush, and the cook, Earl Dean Watkins, had entered one of his experimental phases. This was not a good sign. Earl Dean’s experiments were the reason the Gateway no longer served liver, flan, or anything described as “deconstructed.”

“I swear to Almighty God,” Dottie muttered, balancing three plates and a grievance, “if he’s done what I think he’s done…”

“What’d he do now?” asked Benny, the dishwasher, who lived for moments like this.

“He put nutmeg in the mashed taters,” Dottie said. “I seen him.”

Benny winced. “Again?”

“He said it ‘brightens the profile.’ I said it brightens my desire to walk straight into traffic.”

Paul and Mary Ruth watched the drama unfold the way long-married couples watch storms. With interest, but no intention of getting wet.

Dottie arrived at their table with a smile that had been professionally trained to appear genuine under all circumstances, including betrayal.

“Happy anniversary,” she said. “Forty-two, right?”

Mary Ruth blinked. “How’d you know?”

“You order the same thing every year,” Dottie said. “And you both sit like you’re bracing for impact.”

Paul cleared his throat. “Everything all right back there?”

Dottie hesitated. This was a mistake. When a waitress hesitates, truth is warming up in the bullpen.

“Earl Dean’s been creative,” she said carefully.

Mary Ruth stiffened. “Define creative.”

“Well,” Dottie said, “the meatloaf’s solid. He knows better than to mess around with that. But the mashed taters are… adventurous.”

Paul frowned. “Adventurous how?”

“Follow the yellow brick road adventurous,” Dottie said. “Spices unknown.”

Mary Ruth looked at Paul. Paul looked at Mary Ruth. Forty-two years of marriage passed silently between them, including the time Paul tried yoga and the time Mary Ruth bought a waterbed.

“We’ll take ‘em,” Mary Ruth said.

Dottie sighed in relief. “Bless you.”

The plates arrived, steaming and innocent-looking. The meatloaf sat proud and brown, as dependable as ever. The mashed taters, however, had an air about them. Not hostile. Just… confident.

Paul took a bite.

He paused.

Mary Ruth watched him closely. “Well?”

Paul considered. His eyebrows moved through several negotiations.

“Tastes like,” he said slowly, “Christmas arguing with Thanksgiving.”

Mary Ruth tried a forkful and nodded. “That’s nutmeg.”

Paul swallowed. “Why?”

From the kitchen came Earl Dean’s voice. “Innovation!”

Dottie’s temper snapped like a twig. She marched to the pass-through window and pointed a spoon like a weapon.

“You put nutmeg in the taters on anniversary Tuesday?” she hissed.

Earl Dean shrugged. “People like surprises.”

Dottie leaned in. “People like consistency. That’s why they stay married and eat here.”

The entire dining room went quiet, which happens when a truth gets said out loud by someone wearing orthopedic shoes.

Earl Dean sighed. “I got carried away.”

“You always do,” Dottie said. “Now fix it.”

There was a clatter, some muttering, and ten minutes later a fresh bowl of proper mashed taters arrived at Paul and Mary Ruth’s table, smooth as silk and pure as a baby’s heart.

Mary Ruth smiled up at Dottie. “Now them taters are worth writing home about.”

Paul reached for Mary Ruth’s hand. “Forty-two years,” he said. “Still know what matters.”

From the kitchen, Earl Dean called out, “Anybody want nutmeg taters half-price?”

Nobody answered.

Outside, the evening settled in, and inside the Gateway Restaurant, order was restored, love endured, and Dottie Goodman lived to fight another Tuesday.

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New Yesterdays can be found at: Books-A-Million, Barnes & Noble, and Amazon, as well as your favorite bookshops. The Audiobook is available from Libro.fm, as well as Amazon.