Page 3 of Baking Spirits Bright!

Ryan

Quality Inn. Not much for quality.

I assumed picking a motel rather than an Airbnb would be safer in an unknown town in Alabama. Maybe I was wrong.

My gut cringes even more when I read a sign on the office door. “Visit register in Enchilada.”

Alrighty, then.

I step back and pass The Hole, opting for door number three: the entrance to the Mexican restaurant. It does seem like the safest choice at this point.

An upbeat mariachi tempo greets me. There’s one guy sitting at the bar, which is one more than should be here at nine a.m. on a weekday. I turn and spot the front counter, along with what I hope is the register mentioned on the note.

Nobody is there, so I ring a bell. A small man hurries from the back and smiles. “How many?”

I glance around to make sure he’s talking to me. “Ryan Lewis. I made a reservation.”

He starts grabbing menus, so I stop him. “Not for a table. For a room.”

“Si.”

He opens a notebook and flips through some grease-stained pages. He mumbles something in Spanish, then disappears again.

I sigh and scan the room while he’s gone. Sleeping next door to this place should be a real treat.

A thin older enters this time. “You booked a room?”

His voice is husky and dark. Not in the way women find sexy, but in the way that says, “I had unfiltered cigarettes for dinner and gunpowder for dessert.”

“Yes, sir,” I answer. At least according to Expedia I booked a room.

I pull out my phone to open the confirmation in my email in case they ask. Before I locate it, he speaks again. “Here’s the key. Rooms are numbered. If the number fell off, count.”

I nod. Seems simple enough.

“You’re in four.”

He holds out the key, only to jerk his hand back and cover a deathly cough. Then he holds it out again, and I take it with caution. I hope he isn’t competing in the town bake-off.

“Thanks.” I turn and hurry to my rental car.

I park in front of room four, which doesn’t have a number. Lucky for me, both three and five do. I plan on spending most of my time exploring the small town anyway. All I need is a comfy, clean bed and a shower with warm water.

My job as a food blogger takes me to many interesting places, especially since I cover the Southern states. I’ve been to the Gulf Coast once and to Huntsville, but this marks my first visit to a small town in the heart of Alabama.

The older I get, the more I appreciate growing up on a farm. My parents started a pumpkin patch in retirement, and any content I post about the farm and their process gets the most traffic. Readers love that small-town family feel as much as I do.

When I read about a county-wide bake-off on a blog by an Alabama apple orchard, I had to check it out.

I barely get the door unlocked and open it to a horrible smell. Like a worse-than-cleaning-up-horse-stalls smell. I pinch my nose and flip the light switch.

A bulb fizzles in and out above the bed, but it’s bright enough to show the heavy stains on the carpet. The entire room has a 1980s vibe, so it clearly hasn’t been updated in forty years—and possibly not cleaned.

I retreat outside for fresh air and shut the door behind me. The Airbnb site listed one available place a few miles from here. I send a message.

I get an immediate response with a local number to call. The owner is either overly hospitable or an axe murderer. Given the condition of this motel room, I’ll take my chances.

“Hello?” The man has a thick Southern drawl but sounds polite.

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