It wasn’t planned, at least not in the kind of way that comes with itineraries or hotel reservations. One summer, years before Val’s Recipe Box was even an idea, a few friends and I packed an old car, a half-broken cooler, and a paper map that tore by the second stop. We weren’t chasing landmarks. We were chasing something quieter the kind of joy that comes from letting the road decide what happens next.
We drove through backroads lined with fields, stopped at farm stands that sold peaches so ripe they bruised in our hands, and laughed when we realized none of us had remembered to bring actual utensils.
Somewhere outside of Asheville, we pulled over by a roadside picnic table that leaned more than it stood. That was where it began my unexpected love for cooking, or maybe, for what cooking really meant.
Learning to Feed More Than Hunger
Up until then, I had thought of cooking as something you did a task, a way to fill a plate. But that evening, with the sky turning the color of honey and the air thick with the smell of summer grass, it felt like something else. We had a loaf of bread from a small-town bakery, a jar of homemade jam, a few tomatoes, and a block of cheese that was starting to sweat from the heat.
I took a pocketknife, sliced everything on the lid of the cooler, and watched as everyone gathered around, waiting for their turn. It was messy and unstructured and far from fancy, but when we took that first bite bread soft, tomatoes sweet, cheese just salty enough it tasted like home, even though we were miles from ours.
Something about that simple moment clicked in me. Cooking wasn’t about perfect measurements or polished plates. It was about feeding people, about turning what you have into something that brings everyone closer. I didn’t know it then, but that roadside sandwich was my first real lesson in the kind of cooking Val had always believed in.
The Stops That Became Stories
We kept driving, and food became our map. In Georgia, we stopped at a diner where the waitress called everyone “darlin” and served biscuits that could make a grown man tear up. In Tennessee, an old man outside a gas station sold us fried catfish from a paper boat and told stories about his grandmother’s cast iron pan.
In every stop, there was a different accent, a new flavor, and the same feeling that food was never just food. It was memory, generosity, and a way of saying, you belong here.
By the time we made it back home two weeks later, I had filled a small notebook with recipes, scribbles, and the names of places that no GPS would ever recognize. But more than that, I had filled something inside me that I didn’t even know had been empty a sense of connection that only shared meals seem to create.
Coming Home with a New Kind of Hunger
When I finally unpacked my bags, I found myself looking at Val’s old recipe box in a new light. For years, I had seen it as nostalgia a sweet reminder of her. But now I understood it differently. It wasn’t a collection of dishes. It was a map too, one that led back to every table she ever gathered people around.
That road trip didn’t turn me into a chef overnight. But it made me see food as something bigger than cooking. It made me notice the laughter between bites, the stories that unfold over second servings, the quiet love in every shared meal. It taught me that the best recipes aren’t always written down they’re lived, felt, passed along in moments like that evening by the road, with sunlight fading and bread crumbs in our laps.
Sometimes, you need to step away from your kitchen to remember why you love it. For me, all it took was a dusty road, a few friends, and a sandwich that changed everything.
Mark Renshaw is the creator of Val’s Recipe Box, a heartfelt food blog preserving cherished family recipes inspired by his grandmother Val. Blending nostalgic storytelling with comforting, unfussy dishes, he celebrates the tradition and love behind every meal.
