Tales from the Cracker Barrel

Makeovers, turnip greens, Gumby and Uncle Herschel

I’m not sure I was ever going to boycott Cracker Barrel.

I might have put them in “time out” for a while.

But go cold turkey and dressing? 

That would be like plucking nose hairs or going on a vegan diet. Too much unnecessary pain and suffering.  

Besides, I only have so much rage. I will save it for people who gun down schoolchildren.

I confess. I have always wanted to buy one of those rocking chairs on the front porch outside Cracker Barrel. Unless you’ve been sleeping in one of those rocking chairs for the past few weeks, you probably have been following the story.

In a series of misguided miscues, Cracker Barrel deported Uncle Herschel, rolled away his barrel, moved the furniture, changed the decor and disenfranchised loyal customers.

Didn’t they learn from the makeover mistakes of others? Never mess with beer cans and team mascots.

The decision to rebrand was met with backlash, backfire and a backpedal. At least they came to their senses and slammed on the brakes.

I consider myself a well-seasoned citizen, and “oldie but goodie.’’ We are set in our ways. We believe some change is good. A little tweaking doesn’t hurt. We just don’t want radical shifts. It makes our heads spin. It rocks our world.

To me, Cracker Barrel has always been stuck in the past in a good way. After all, the bottom of the sign says: “Old Country Store.’’ Old is constant. Old is consistent. No surprises. Someone can walk through the door knowing what to expect.

At least now the company can make good on its promise and return to its original factory settings.

I’m glad. 

I was going to miss those turnip greens. 

My gosh, those turnip greens. Slow-simmered with country ham, onions and a dash of vinegar. We once ordered several quarts for our Thanksgiving dinner. There were no leftovers.

The spicy grilled catfish is a personal favorite, even if it is farm-raised. I am also a fan of their chicken and dumplings, along with the macaroni and cheese, which is considered a vegetable in the South. And the “Old-Timers Breakfast’’ of eggs, bacon, biscuits and sawmill gravy takes me back to grandmama’s kitchen.

The restrooms at Cracker Barrel are usually clean. At least you know where to find them. There are some unique items in the gift shop. Some are tacky, but they are my kind of tacky.

While I’m waiting for my food to arrive, I am often tempted to wander around and look at all the stuff on those lattice-board walls that probably came out of somebody’s attic. 

I can share plenty of Cracker Barrel stories. I have almost as many Cracker Barrel tales as I do Waffle House and Nu-Way hot dog stories.

Like the time my father and I went to a cattle auction at the Georgia National Fairgrounds in Perry, then crossed the street to the Cracker Barrel to break cornbread over two bowls of turnip greens. That’s a good memory.

Like those times when my family requested a table near the fireplace on a cold night, played pegboard games and colored the placemats with crayons. Cracker Barrel also used to sell books written by my friend, the late Bo Whaley … books with titles like “Kudzu Don’t Cover Everything” and “How to Love Yankees With a Clear Conscience.’’

Like the time we once found a Pokey — but no Gumby — on the shelves of the Cracker Barrel gift shop in Dublin. Of course, I had to have a Gumby to complete the set for our grandchildren. We went on a mission and finally found the little green guy 112 miles down the road at the Cracker Barrel in Waycross.

I know of no other store that sells Gumbys and Pokeys.

For years, I have been teaching classes to help people write their autobiographies. We have a class party the last week, and I ask them to bring a dish from their past. When they want to know where they can find old-fashioned candy – candy corn, peanut brittle, moon pies, pecan logs and Necco wafers – I send them down the nostalgia aisle at Cracker Barrel.

I once spent a forgettable afternoon at the Cracker Barrel in Paducah, Kentucky. After a couple of emotionally exhausting days of car trouble, my wife and I ended up in the dining room while mechanics at a local car dealership worked on our alternator.

I don’t cry often, but tears rolled down my cheeks and onto my plate. There was no need to pass the salt shaker.

But the mashed potatoes, fried okra and country green beans were comfort food at a time when I needed comforting.

Listen up, Cracker Barrel. 

The best things are best left alone.