This ain't my first rodeo, as they say. I've done my culinary tour of Colorado. I may not be to the Mile High born, but I have eaten the hell out of my adoptive home, taken to it with the fervor of a convert -- of a man who knows precisely how green the grass is on the other side of the fence and has gladly turned his back. Still, it seems that the longer I live here, the deeper Denver's history of weirdness grows -- the more places keep popping up that I have to see, have to experience. Places like White Fence Farm.
Yes, for this week's review I visited White Fence Farm -- saw the petting zoo, pulled my mother away from the gift shop, and urged everyone that they should order the fried chicken, which could be the best in town. They didn't listen.
There's one other thing White Fence Farm does well: fudge.
My visit to White Fence Farm made me nostalgic for more Americana, a hunger I satisfied with a visit to Cracker Barrel, whose shops basically act as our Strategic Kitsch Reserve, a national stockpile of horehound drops, American flag ornaments and John Deere beer steins.
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But man does not live by country ham and buttermilk biscuits alone. There's also whiskey, and I'll be drinking plenty next Wednesday, July 1, when you're all invited to a party at Katie Mulllen's in honor of the publication of my book, Cooking Dirty. Come back here tomorrow for all the details, or just grab this week's copy of Westword.