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We must have made a million trips from Florida to Georgia in some old beat-up family vehicle or another—hatchback, wagon, or van—along  U.S. (Route) 1  during the haphazard, sunkissed seasons of my early childhood. images-4.jpg

Of course, I wasn’t carrying an abacus around or keeping a tally in my little, braided head because I was too busy staring out the window at cars and trees, announcing loudly that I had to pee, and asking if we were there yet.

Sure, a million trips is almost certainly an exaggeration; it was probably more like 999,995 times, but that’s what nostalgia is all about, isn’t it? These were the salad days, after all, long before the bruising insult of adulthood hit. I barely measured waist-high on the adult scale—far too short to be concerned with mileage and other similarly tedious concepts.child o corn.jpg

This was childhood, for heaven’s sake. Road trips were torture, skyscrapers really touched the sky, and no one had the same kind of bond as you did with that cat your father brought home. You and Mr. Fufflewhiskers were unquestionably mind-reading soulmates. You would one day meet again and feast together like legends and gods in the candy and mouse rich land of Kid & Cat Valhalla.

My absolute favorite part of these arduous, state border-crossing road trips was stopping at a roadside Stuckey’s that has long since closed for the good stuff.




Image public domain, by Bravo Six Niner Delta, from Flickr


We didn’t stop for just any candy either, my friends. Oh, no; this was the stuff of dreams and, I assure you wholeheartedly, it most certainly lines the tables in Kid & Cat Valhalla.

Let me stop here and explain something before we go any further. This was absolutely my #1 favorite thing about being on the road to Granny and Poppa’s. It was the reason why my little, fidgety butt found the loooooong drive (in reality, about two hours) bearable. And the mere mention and/or thought of it still gives me goosebumps and sugar-shivers to this very day.

What was it, you ask?


Oh, Sugar Plum…

It was that fluffy white, sticky sweet, sugary, melt in your mouth flavor of egg yolks and corn syrup and magical pecan paradise sent down straight from heaven to Georgia to enlighten the taste buds and tongues of humankind: Pecan Divinity.

In terms of Southern euphemisms, we are talking “so good it makes you want to slap your Mama and she’d be completely okay with it because it’s just that damned scrumptious” deliciousness.

There’s a reason they call it divinity, you know—and the answer should be right on the tip of your tongue.

I double-dog dare you to try it.