Dear Mr. VP,

I am often very critical of you, but today I am going to do you a solid.

I see you’ll be in Nashville tomorrow.

I used to go to Nashville once or twice a year, back when a college funded my travels and I hadn’t yet been a baby factory. If I had any desire to move out of New England (and I don’t, really, except I could do without winter) Nashville would be on my list. (Other potential destinations: Palm Springs or Denver.)

You probably won’t enjoy Nashville in the same way I do, because I can’t imagine you’re all that into the honky-tonk bar scene; they might not have your preferred O’Douls.

However. What you can enjoy — what literally everyone can enjoy — is the Loveless Cafe.

Oh dear, the Loveless Cafe. Where my love affair with fried okra — something I hadn’t ever eaten prior to my trip to Tennessee — began. Where the fried chicken will leave you salivating and the biscuits will melt in your mouth. I still haven’t had jam as good as the jam they served with those biscuits.

If you are going to listen to literally anything I ever say to you, this is it. I am not steering you wrong.

If only my sheer presence at your lunch table as a person with a uterus would not be a Satanic distraction, I would fly in to join you.

D