To justify to myself that living at home is okay, I am trying to earn my keep with food. My adventures have turned decidedly culinary. In my first week back, I went on quite the sourdough pancake binge. Every evening I prepped the sourdough starter and carefully monitored the progress of the yeast reproduction–i.e., watched the bubbles multiply. The simplicity of the recipe reminds me that homemade does not have to be hard.

The sourdough pancakes require:

• 1 cup sourdough starter, at room temperature
• 1 tbsp sugar
• 1/2 tsp salt
• 1/2 tsp baking soda mixed in 2 tbsp
• 1 tbsp butter for pan or griddle

Mix the starter, sugar, and salt together. Add the baking soda and water mixture when the pan is hot and ready for pancake making. The resulting pancakes are not sweet, so the sourdough taste can peek through. They are simultaneously spongy and elastic. Sprinkle chopped fruit, spread almond butter, or dollop whole milk yogurt as desired. Note that there are no pictures of finished plated pancakes; I was too hungry to take a picture. Sad?

I next explored eggplant with variations on Baba Ghanoush and Ratatouille. I knew I had a problem when I looked in the mirror and my teeth and lips had a dark purple hue. Not the best look on me.

My latest journey is into the land of Pie and its neighbor Quiche. I believe that the key ingredients to good baking is fat, sugar, and salt. And those are basically the ingredients of a pie crust. For a quiche, the savory crust is even simpler because I omit the sugar.

• 2 cups flour, and some for rolling out the dough
• 1 tsp salt
• 1 cup frozen butter (2 sticks)
• 3 tbsp cold water

Pulse the flour and salt in a food processor. Dice the frozen butter into cubes, and add it into the food processor. Pulse until it resembles crumbly feta cheese. Pour the mixture onto a clean surface. Make a little well to hold a tbsp of water. Combine until the water is gone. Add more water until the dough can be shaped into a ball. The recipe makes two pie crusts. Chill in the refrigerator for an hour, or freeze for later use.

The recipe might need to be tweaked because the butter is inebriating. I came home from the gym and was struck by the distinct smell of butter. I had some leftover sauteed kale and mushrooms (another of my obsessions) which was transformed into a kale and mushroom quiche. A fresh empire apple became an apple galette. My mom cut into both before I had a chance to take pictures. Impatience evidently runs in the family.

The last bit was also a mental test. A sign outside the Nashville Bank Trust (or something to that effect) told me it was 46 F outside. My tri cycling shoes were damp, and the wind stole whatever little heat I managed to produce. I rode the end of the Trace to Highway 100 with some seriously frozen feet. I got to the Loveless Cafe and had to use my hands to physically separate my toes to put on my flip flops. My brain couldn’t convince my toes to move. The Loveless Cafe had an hour long wait for a table, so I went to Trace Bikes instead. The owner gave me handwarmers and got me coffee from the cafe. Hershey, a beautiful chocolate lab puppy that hung out at Trace Bikes, acted as my toe warmer. I’m not into the domestication of animals, but a chocolate lab is one that I would consider as a possibility. Once warm, however, I took another half hour to face the cold. A woman came in wearing full-length biking tights, a jacket, booties, the whole deal, and she was still cold and wanted to buy more clothes. (This woman is no weakling; she is a mother of four who is doing an Ironman in three weeks.) I was just wearing thin tri shorts, a t-shirt, arm warmers, and a windbreaker. I realized I’m pretty tough, or tougher than I give myself credit for.

People all along the way shook their heads when I told them I was riding solo. If I let fear limit me, then the loss is mine. I can’t accomplish things if I don’t try. Here’s to getting this, and more, done.

I, however, am not a witch and so survived a wet but pleasant end of Tuesday’s bike ride. Addie, my host in Tupelo, gave me a lift from Tupelo to mile marker 269. From there, I finished off the rest of Mississippi, cut the corner of Alabama, and entered Tennessee. In one day, I was in three different states. Wahoo.

The rain began to come down a little bit after crossing the Tennessee River bridge. My body had whined pretty much the whole day. I’m not sure if it knew I couldn’t handle both a downpour and an achy body or if the Tylenol just kicked in, but I didn’t notice any pain once the rain really started coming down. I tried to embrace the rain and have a bit of fun with it. I sang “Bikin’ in the Rain” or watched my reflection in the slick roads. The only negative was that cars were being a bit reckless. One car crossed into my lane to pass a slower RV and came frighteningly close to hitting me. I wonder if the ten seconds he saved by not waiting for me to pass first was really worth it. I hope he used them well.

After about 20 miles, I had my fill of biking in the rain. I was only 8 miles out from Collinwood, when a truck coming from the opposite direction motioned me to stop. The owner of the bed and breakfast that I am staying at saw how hard the rain was coming down and decided to make sure I was okay. What a thoughtful person! Part of this trip is learning when to ask and accept help. I gladly threw my bike in his truck and drove into Collinwood.

The town of Collinwood is about 110 miles south of Nashville and is home to around 1300 people, according to Reba, a volunteer at the Welcome Center. 1300 people! My graduating class was about that size. The main tourist attraction that Reba could recommend is the library, which was once the depot and only train station in town. Luckily, it is right next to my B&B, as is Chad’s Family Restaurant, one of two restaurants in the community. The other restaurant is next to the Piggly Wiggly. (Yes, I too was surprised that they actually exist.) I went in the store, partly for kitsch and partly to find fruit to snack on. I, and the first thing you is the processed food (pork rinds, anyone?) and candy. Finding produce was a bit difficult because it’s tucked away in a corner, but the aisles and aisles of soft drinks and processed foods are conveniently located.

The B&B owners invited me to go to church with them today. I was a bit hesitant, but I thought I might have a new experience. And going to church in the south is supposed to be quite the show. I’m excited.

I’m less than excited for the cold front that is moving north and bringing rain and high-50s temperatures. Biking Thursday and Friday is going to be tough, but that’s what this trip is about, right? I’m just getting what I asked for. Just two more days and a handful of hours left. What overused statements of encouragement can you think of? So far I’ve got, “Git it done!” and “Pain is temporary, pride is permanent.” Any more ideas?

P.S. The church service was a Pentecostal or Church of God service. My host asked if I wanted to step forward and let Jesus Christ enter my heart. I awkwardly said that I was okay. I think I broke the poor lady’s heart. Oh well.

The most pathetic image of the day: I stood in a bathroom for 45 minutes to stay out of the cold and rain. I left for a few minutes to eat because I thought it was unappetizing to eat in the bathroom, especially since other people were using it or in it at the time. Pretty low, right? A few rest stops down the road, a couple was kind of enough to invite me into their car to warm up. The man has done a couple of cross-country rides and has biked the Trace several times. The woman drives a pickup as support. I don’t think it takes courage to do something as crazy as this just once. It takes courage to know exactly what you’re getting yourself into and to do it anyway. I hope I have the cohones to do this trip again.

I began my first day of riding early Tuesday morning in Baton Rouge on the Scenic Highway. The highway’s name is a bit of a misnomer, because riding out of Baton Rouge you mostly see huge chemical plants shrouded in a permanent fog of “steam.” The road had a generous shoulder for parts, but had quite a bit of debris. I avoided the big stuff, but hit a super staple at some point. I was expecting some tube punctures and was prepared with two spare tubes, a patch kit, and a pump. The pump, however, broke two valves and is a devil to pump up to 120 psi, or even 100 psi. Consequently, I got a couple of pinch flats on my last remaining tube with a working valve. My patch kit was whittled down and desperation was loomed. Nevertheless, I never felt alone. People stopped offering air or patching expertise. My couchsurfing host takes the cake (or maybe pecan pie is more appropriate). Brian came up to St. Francisville and  brought me a CO2 pump and tubes. He also introduced me to Frank of Magnolia Cafe, a town mainstay with friendly people, huge cookies, excellent coffee, and live music.

I raced the setting sun riding into Natchez. Once I hit Mississippi, the hills graduated from rolling to cruel and unusual. Between St. Francisville and Natchez, towns are sparse. Farms and cows are not. When cars passed, the cows didn’t notice at all, but as I pedaled by, they all looked up and stared. Their heads followed me, and I could imagine them chatting at the milking station about the odd sighting of a girl on a red bicycle. For safety reasons, I refuse to ride with an ipod, so instead silly thoughts and images entertain me. It was too dark by the time I got just north of Sibley, so the bed and breakfast owner picked me up. My friends and family will be glad to know I do believe in safety first.

The highlight of Natchez was sitting on the bluff above the Mississippi River while watching the sunset and reading Life on the Mississippi. Or maybe the highlight was the ridiculously delicious breakfast, including scrambled eggs with half and half cooked in olive oil and butter and creole seasonings. Or the walnut french toast. Or the mini crepes. Really, the bike trip is just an excuse for me to eat rich foods guilt-free.

The ride to Jackson involved some bike troubles that delayed me two hours. At least the trend is moving in the right direction. I got my bike fixed up. I rode with a partner for miles 55-70, which allowed me to draft. He was nearly three times my age, but still going strong. Old age doesn’t necessarily mean limits maybe just challenges.

In Jackson, I went to my first state fair with some friends of friends, the Taffs. The state fair is like a mobile amusement park, but with animals and a circus too. The circus was terrifying because the tightrope walkers didn’t have a net. Instead their handlers watched anxiously from the side, ready to … ‘catch’ them if they fell. They didn’t fall, but there were some close calls. They weren’t quite as skillful as Philippe Petit, but who is? The agriculture exhibition tent had normal farm animals like cows, ponies, and sheeps as well as the odd zebra and pony mix. I was disappointed that the fair was not like the one in Lords of the Gourds and had no pumpkin-growing (0r punkin, as one of the growers calls the gourd) contest. I consoled myself with brain-shaking rides, the Ferris wheel, and funnel cake.

Although I had mighty high expectations of southern hospitality, people are still exceeding them. As I came into Jackson I waited on the side of the Trace for my host to pick me up. Four cars stopped to make sure I was okay and wasn’t stranded. Who does that? People stop their daily business and help me for no particular reason other than they’re kind. (Some might be afraid for my safety–I’ve gotten quite a few, “You’re doing this by yourSELF?” and the accompanying shake of the head.) Or people like the Munfords or the Taffs open their homes and give me their precious time. Makes me think we might not be living in a purely survival-of-the-fittest world.

Two days of biking down, four to go. Here’s to hoping my knees don’t give out.

Speaking of symbiotic relationships, couchsurfing is a great hidden gem. Brian and talked about this over lunch. He is a freelance photographer and has conceived a documentary project on couchsurfing. But we both wonder, if the site gets too much publicity, is there a risk that the culture of the site will change. Will people use it merely as a free housing message board instead of a kind of cultural exchange? Can popularity ruin a good thing?

Adventure 1: This week, I quit my job, said farewell to friends, and moved out of the city I’ve called home for the last five plus years.

So, what next?

I may deviate from the route shown, but here’s an approximation of the 500+ mile biking journey from Baton Rouge to Nashville. I keep looking at parts of the route through Google’s streetview and imagining myself on the road in less than 48 hours. I know not everything will go as planned, and I’m prepared mentally for some deviation. I feel like I’m sitting at the top of a slide — not the run-of-the-mill playground kind but the 8-story Cliff Diver at Splish Splash kind.

This is my first stint in the south South, and I’m taking some time to sight-see and meet people. I’ve already gotten an earful from bed and breakfast owners and managers who are either excited for me or apprehensive for my safety. Here is the philosophical question of the day: Where is the line between hubris and lacking confidence? At what point is it just dumb to say, you may have lived here your entire life, but I still won’t follow your advice? I can’t live by everyone else’s rules or fears. I will listen politely, look for logic, and assess accordingly.

Who else will I meet, what else will I see? Check back here. Although pictures won’t be up until I return on the 18th, I hope to share my stories here, wherever the Internet gods allow.