To-go boxes just confuse me. Why do restaurants insist on packing our food in these things? Often I find that they are much bigger than needed and in the end, they get tossed. It’s a waste. Don’t let the recycling emblem on a food box trick you. It’s nearly impossible to recycle styrofoam (or any kind of packaging that has food bits, grease, etc stuck on it.)

Being on the road, I have the capacity to go through many of these boxes. I always ask for my leftovers to be wrapped in a piece of tin foil. Sometimes the server looks at me as though I’ve sprouted a third head from my armpit when I ask for a piece of tin foil as opposed to a box. Sometimes I have to take extra time to explain that I do not want a to-go box. But it’s worth it.

Obviously, some wet items like soup or chinese food necessitate more packaging, but for that extra half-sandwich, this is a small and very effective way to cut down on waste. Plus, an item wrapped in foil fits easier into your purse or back-pack. I’ve even carried leftover pancakes tucked flat and neat inside my journal with this method. It’s easier to trek when your hands are free and you’re not lugging around a burdensome bag with a to-go box inside.

Remember - it’s all about re-education. People don’t think of solutions as it’s often easier to accept what is presented - and restaurants usually only give the option of a to-go box. Help re-educate in restaurants. Ask for your leftovers to be wrapped in tin foil. Or if you want to get really hard-core eco-friendly, ask for a newspaper wrapper. For now, tin foil works for me.

Every single time I turn that bend on the 90/94 expressway and suddenly the brick buildings and the hulking steel structures appear in front of me . . . I feel a settled-ness, a calmness, a great big warm sigh of relief right in my belly and my head and my heart. And yesterday was no different. I love Chicago.

Yesterday, I had the entire afternoon all to myself in my Grandma’s apartment. I re-organized my suitcase. I’ve not had a moment to do this for several weeks. It’s difficult to get going in the morning when you can’t find your toothbrush. Then I laid down on her bed and took a few deep breaths and then thought, “OK . . . what next?”

Then it hit me . . . my Chicago friends were having an afternoon BBQ. There is just no way I can be in the state of Illinois and not go see all of them. And now, reflecting on it, I’m so glad I did. It was a magical convergence. It just so happened that there was a special training event going on in town and so several of my friends from Detroit, St. Louis and San Francisco also showed up. I didn’t tell anyone I was coming up either, so when I ran into the courtyard, everyone was really surprised. It was great. I mean, there’s nothing much that compares to ten of your favorite people all arguing over who gets to pick you up and bear hug you first.

I retold all my latest adventures and a few of these friends pointed out that for the four years they’ve known me, I have always been a gypsy. (I hadn’t realized that, not really.) I put some pieces of the puzzle of “what will Anna do next” together and ran into some folks who can help educate me about straw/cob housing - which is my latest interest. Everyone is trying to convince me to move there.

We ended my 24 hours in town with lunch at one my favorite restaurants - Lula- located in Logan Square. I highly recommend this cafe - the food is always local, fresh, unique and priced very reasonably, especially considering the eclectic mix of items that they serve. They serve brunch daily, not just on weekends and everyday the menu changes. I had the beet & arugula bruschetta - one of my favorites. Their bread is always grilled to perfection, never doing damage to the inside of your mouth the way alot of bruschettas have a tendency to.

Also the art there is always really great. I’ve been patronizing Lula for four years now. When I first lived in the neighborhood, they were never crowded during the weekdays, so now to arrive on a Monday afternoon and be put on a wait list was impressive for the tiny cafe that I’ve grown to love so much.

So I left late this afternoon, heading back down south, rambling ever closer to Nashville. I was going to drive all night, but an old friend in Champaign just called and so we’re going to catch up. Yup, the adventure always continues . . .

Everybody knows everybody in small towns.

Yesterday, we went to grab some food at Green Acres diner - home of the monster burger - in Adairville, Kentucky. As we waited for our burgers, I perused the community bulletin board. On it, I found a business card for The Ghost Hunter.

As we entertained ourselves with speculation about The Ghost Hunter, I thought to myself, “Hmm . . I wonder if that person is sitting in here right now or if someone he knows is.” I felt as though the chances were slim since there were only four other patrons in the restaurant.

Our top questions for the Ghost Hunter are:

Does he investigate crop circles? What is his stance on aliens? How ’bout ghost-aliens? Ghost-robots? And where did he find the clip art for his card?

After we finished the last of our tater tots and onion rings, we got up to pay the bill just as the two now remaining customers were also getting up to check out. I thumb-tacked the Ghost Hunter’s card back up to the cork board. The man in line said, “You got a kick outta my card, huh?”

“Do you do aliens too?” I asked.

He just laughed and pointed to his wife. “Naw, that’s her territory.”

I’ve been staying at my friend Candy’s house for the past week. We all like to eat. Her husband Jesse suggested that we try the new independently owned wing place in their ghetto fabulous ‘hood called Ghot Wingz. It’s a tiny corner joint, almost behind an alley in the back of a building off of Gallatin Road in East Nashville.

The place just opened up one week before and I am quite impressed by the set-up. It’s simple and the smoked wings, offered in nine tantalizing flavors, are quite tasty! They have a community room with a couple of pool tables and an old Nintendo. The decor of giant muscle car posters, Chevy barstools and countertops constructed of old mechanic toolboxes, is, by my guess inspired by The Nashville Auto Diesel College, located directly across the street.

Sharonda Stone, the owner herself, was the one who handed me my order with a smile as she pulled back the lid of the steaming to-go box for my approval. I like it when the owners of a place are involved. I chose the buffalo style wings, which were well paired with Cajun fries and the twelve pack of beer we washed them down with at home during movie night. (Note - twelve pack of beer sold separately from Ghot Wingz’s combo.)

So . . . anyway, lots of beers later, Jesse said, “Oh, they don’t even have menus yet. I bet they need a website. I could offer to do their website and they could just pay me in wings. That’ll be $4000.00 in wings every month, please.”

“Jesse,” I shrieked. “Do you realize what you’ve done? You’ve essentially just given yourself a $48,000.00 a year raise! This is brilliant!”

Then I got an idea.

“I’m a great big ole math dork,” I said. “How many hot wings would Ghot Wingz have to give you every single day in order to give you your raise?”

Jesse grabbed pencil and paper. I ran out of the room to get my 10-key. (Yes, I’m traveling with a 10-key . . . long story.) So there we are in Candy and Jesse’s living room doing math instead of watching films. I was laughing so hard that the tape from my 10-key unfurled all over the living room. Jesse by that time had switched to using his computer for calculations, and therefore came up with the answer in wings before I could punch nary a key on my adding machine.

The answer is - $48,000 in wings at .80 cents per wing breaks down to approximately 52 wings apiece per day for Candy and Jesse each.

That’s alotta hot wangz. You can check Jesse’s math if you want. I didn’t. I’m a math dork and all, but I try not to push it to the extreme.

Last Sunday in Murfreesboro I roller skated for hours in the hot mid-afternoon sun. After a bit of that, I was hungry - and thirsty. Being a holiday weekend, not much in the way of eateries was open in the historic downtown area of Murfreesboro, where I was happily tucked away with no car.

I rolled up to the square. Sadly, no coffee shops open. In fact, nothing open at all. I was headed back home when I noticed that B. McNeel’s was open for 20 more minutes. This restaurant is elegant; housed in a historic building just a block off the square. This establishment reminds me of something one might see adorned with magnolia blossoms and featured in Southern Living Magazine, it’s that beautiful on the inside.

I walked up the stairs to the front door on my skate stoppers and a smiling hostess opened the door for me.

“Can I eat in here?” I asked. The hostess kind of gave me a funny look. I pointed to my skates. “I don’t want to mess up your hardwoods.”

“I’ll go ask my manager,” she said.

I waited, sweating outside no more than thirty seconds before the front door was flung open yet again by another smiling face. It was Barbara herself, the owner of the restaurant.

“Get in here, girl!” she said, laughing. “Just don’t fall.”

I did have to catch my balance momentarily as I rolled across those slick, polished hardwood floors. The menu at B. McNeel’s is simple for Sunday brunch. There’s a buffet with everything you can imagine, but I didn’t want to get out of my seat or walk up to the buffet line in my socked feet amongst all the families who were sporting their Sunday finery.

My waitress came to get my drink order and informed me that Barbara was taking care of my tab! I wanted something special and made-to-order and insisted that I pay. “No,” the waitress repeated. “It’s on us.”

“Thank you! How nice!” I said. “I’m a guest in this town!”

I ordered the huevos rancheros and was very pleasantly surprised by this Southern restaurant’s rendition of my favorite Latin breakfast. The refried beans were whole beans, not refried bean paste. And the sauce! Oh the sauce! It was just spicy enough and very dark reddish brown, full of speckles of peppers and herbs and goodness and full of flavor too. I’m sure they make it in the kitchen from scratch.

The restaurant is full of dappled light from the long windows and has a great feel in general. I indeed felt as though I stepped into a magazine. And then, just when I thought the experience couldn’t get any better, Lyle Lovett’s voice pumped through the loudspeaker. My favorite song was playing.