Okay, so technically I am not a vegetarian. I do eat chicken and the occasional bacon or well-disguised beef. But, really, I could easily and happily do without meat. So why do I love my butchers and make it a regular place of visit? It houses my quaint little post office where I hardly ever have to wait in line, and if I do it's because Sandy (the post woman) and the local in front of me are chatting about how her goat gets so angry at the other goats that they have to separate them. I happened to know they were talking about Rocky Balboa, the goat, Rocky for short, so I felt at ease joining the conversation. That's what being local is all about.
I digress. Tillman's. Even if you run in and out to drop a letter off, you still get in your car with your hair smelling like you've just arrived home from a weekend of camping, roasting marshmallows and tinfoil dinners. That's my kind of camping (the part where you don't actually have to sleep on hard ground and no showers in the morning.) Some days they have homemade pies sitting out on the counter cooling. I bought the apple and we devoured the entire thing that night. I've read on all those foodie blogs how fresh bacon from a butcher is so much better. I heartily agree. Try it.
This is Sandy. She knows her flat rates front and back. Don't try arguing with her. She works in this tiny post office where she has to put buckets out and a big piece of plastic sheeting over the Parcel Weight machine, and don a raincoat inside when it rains. I know, she's tough. Don't let her southern accent fool you. Sandy and I get along swimmingly because we're all business, aside from the occasional remark about the rain--inside--that, and I don't doubt her knowledge of her trade. Respect is all any of us want, right?