Pickled Pigs Feet

Seriously, in West, Texas. At the Czech Bakery place, in front of the garage?

On the counter, for all to see.

Pickled Pigs Feet

Stopped in on the way to Dallas for Momma’s Birthday. At one point in my life, it was part of the Austin to Dallas commute, I trekked that maybe once a month for a year.

The Czech bakery was packed with a line that stretched to the bathroom, and in the Men’s Room? A domicile-dwelling challenged individual was performing morning ablutions, the road/sun burned tawny color to his cheeks, the obvious aromatic blend of unbathed exhaust fumes with three-foot radius. Sure.

I like being one of the skinniest people in the room.

The bakery case, perhaps, most famous for kolaches, and the case showed row after row of baked goodies.

Got us a cinnamon twist, plus a heaping helping of “fruit” kolaches, as suitable fare for Dallas.

The cinnamon roll, redolent in yeasty goodness, was gone by the next stop, a Starbucks in Hillsboro. Next to the boot outlet store.

Pickled Pigs Feet

That jar of pickled pigs feet looked like it hadn’t been touched since the last time I stopped there, some years ago.