Every couple of weeks, I have an appointment with a cardiologist at the Oklahoma Heart Hospital, down in Midwest City. When I’m there, I’m usually trying to pass every blood test they give me—they say it’s not a competition, but I’m pretty sure I see Santa Muerte standing over the doc’s shoulder, winking—that by the time every needle in the place has punctured my skin, I’m hungry for something to, at the very least, reenergize my mostly broken spirit.
Located in front of the Heart Hospital is a Phillips 66 gas station, one that I have never really noticed before; desperately needing to grab a hot cup of coffee, I happened to came across yet another Oklahoma gas station that, remarkably, is a hub of homemade eats, serving up the food your Okie grandmother would probably have filled your plate with, eventually earning yourself a trip, ironically enough, to the Oklahoma Heart Hospital.