Pt 26 Florida or Bust
Following his grumbling stomach, he set off on a breakfast adventure, searching for homemade biscuits and eggs at a worn-out, roadside gas station with a dingy facade...
The moment we crossed the Florida state line, everything felt different. The air seemed warmer, thicker, carrying the unmistakable scent of damp earth and pine. The towering Georgia pines we had grown accustomed to gradually gave way to sabal palms, palmettos, and sprawling live oaks draped in Spanish moss, their long, silvery tendrils swaying gently in the breeze. It was a shift, subtle at first, but undeniably Floridian.
Need to catch up?
Pt 25-From Pee Bottles to Peaches: The Unfiltered Truth of Life on the Road
Or, Start from the beginning
With everything put back, including the slides, our three-point inspection done, cats fed, kitty litter cleaned, and plenty of cat and Ernie snacks, water stocked, we were ready to hit the road. Finally, we were heading south on the famous I-75, with only four hours of Google-estimated time left. We were so close.
Back on the highway, we passed signs for the city of Forsyth. A quick read about the town had me adding it to my ever-growing list of places to visit. Their annual festival, held the second weekend of March, sounded like something worth experiencing. If not that, then perhaps Juliette’s Green Tomato Festival in the fall. Definitely next time.
Incorporated in 1823, did you know that Forsyth is almost perfectly placed in the center of Georgia? Little tidbits like this get me excited. I want to go stand in the middle of Forsyth just so I can say I’ve stood in the middle of Forsyth in the middle of Georgia. Kind of like eating Nanaimo bars in Nanaimo, on the east coast of Vancouver Island, in British Columbia, Canada. Yeah, I like quirky things like that.
If you have never had the pleasure of your tongue and mouth dancing with a Nanaimo bar, you need to get to BC quick! A Nanaimo Bar is a bite-sized indulgence that delivers a perfect balance of texture and flavor in three distinct layers.
The bottom layer is a rich, crumbly combination of wafer crumbs, finely chopped nuts, and shredded coconut, all bound together with melted butter and cocoa powder. It has a slightly crunchy texture with a deep, chocolatey nuttiness, complemented by the chew of coconut.
The middle layer is a smooth, creamy custard-flavored icing. Made with butter, powdered sugar, and Bird’s Custard Powder, this layer is velvety and rich, offering a sweet, vanilla-like flavor with a hint of butterscotch warmth. It’s soft but holds its shape, creating a luscious contrast to the firmer base.
The top layer is a glossy, slightly firm chocolate ganache made from melted semi-sweet chocolate and butter. It has a delicate snap when you bite into it, releasing a bittersweet, silky richness that perfectly balances the sweetness of the custard filling.
When all three layers come together, a Nanaimo Bar is sweet, creamy, chocolatey, and slightly crunchy, with a melt-in-your-mouth quality that makes it irresistible. It’s a decadent, multi-textured treat—somewhere between a candy bar and a dessert square—that leaves a lingering taste of chocolate, vanilla custard, and a hint of coconut with every bite. Is your mouth watering yet?





Did you know that Edith Adams, much like Dear Abby, was a fictional persona? “She” was a clever marketing creation by The Vancouver Sun in 1924. For decades, readers turned to “her” for household tips, recipes, and prize-winning dishes, never realizing they were taking advice from someone who didn’t actually exist.
One of her most famous contributions? The first published recipe for Nanaimo Bars in the 1952 Edith Adams Prize Cookbook, where they were called "Chocolate Slices." While the dessert had been enjoyed in Nanaimo, British Columbia, long before, Edith (or rather, her editorial team) helped propel it to national fame.
So, like millions who trusted Dear Abby’s wisdom, home cooks were unknowingly duped by a non-existent kitchen guru. But hey, at least she left us with some great recipes!
I digress.
Forsyth was named after John Forsyth, the U.S. Minister to Spain who later served as governor, senator, and U.S. Secretary of State under Presidents Jackson and Van Buren. He played a crucial role in negotiating the final treaty that handed Florida and other Spanish territories over to the United States. How fitting, I thought, that we were literally driving the route south toward Florida.
Not long after, the sign for Macon appeared in the distance, its historic charm hidden from the interstate. If you’re ever in Georgia in the spring, Macon is the place to be for the Cherry Blossom Festival. The entire city transforms into a sea of pink and white blooms, a sight I had yet to see (but ended up seeing a couple of years later).
All I knew was that just beyond those exits lay soulful music history and the scent of fresh biscuits. Tempting, but the road was calling. Well, until Ernie got hungry. I think his stomach was reading my thoughts.
He pulled off the interstate, much to the dismay of Garmin, which immediately began quipping at him to get back on the route or else. But this time, he ignored the robotic nagging and followed his grumbling stomach. He was on a breakfast adventure, hunting for homemade biscuits and eggs at a corner gas station.
Having lived in the South, Ernie knew the drill. He had worked in just about every southern state and had signed more than a few business contracts over a proper gas station meal. But for me, having grown up in Canada, the idea of eating actual food from a gas station was completely foreign. Maybe somewhere in the more rural parts of Canada, they did things like this. Since moving to the US, my experience of gas station food was limited to suspicious-looking hotdogs slowly spinning on metal rollers, or something wrapped in aluminum foil that had me wondering exactly how long it had been sitting there. And then imagining what was bound to happen to the poor soul’s gut after consuming. But apparently, this type of gas station food was different.

We had pulled off the interstate and drove parallel along quiet side roads, weaving through a little town as Ernie searched for that one sad-looking gas station, because he knew that’s where the gold was.
And he was right.
The worn blue and white facade held the secrets of time, its paint faded from years of sun and weather. Not a soul in sight outside, but inside, it was alive with the soulful sounds of 1920s blues, humming from an old radio behind the counter. The cash register sat at the front, and every inch of space was packed with knickknacks, snacks, drinks, and liquor. The ceilings were just high enough to accommodate someone six feet tall, the dim lighting giving the place an old-world charm that had me curious. Not quite sure what I was looking at, I scanned the room. And then, I spotted Ernie to the left of the register—his grumbling stomach honing in like radar.
There it was.
A tiny hot bar counter, stuffed into a corner, definitely an afterthought. Scrambled eggs, sausage, and bacon sat steaming in their stainless steel containers, the warmth radiating through the glass. Everything looked like it had just been freshly stocked, ready for hungry after-church travelers who, like Ernie, knew exactly where to look. It was the perfect Sunday morning meal for him.
I, on the other hand, stuck to my homemade food, gluten- and lard-free.
The smell of fresh biscuits filled the air, triggering memories of childhood, sitting at the dinner table with my parents and grandparents, biscuits stacked high next to our Sunday roast beef dinner.
With a little of everything, and a couple of extra biscuits for later, Ernie’s stomach was happy. We found our way back onto the interstate, and Garmin, now back in charge, seemed satisfied as well.
The last miles of Georgia unfolding like the final pages of a well-read book. The towns slipped past, Warner Robins, Perry, Unadilla, each name rolling by on green highway signs, familiar yet fleeting.
This stretch of I-75 had a rhythm of its own, a steady cadence of farmland, billboards, and the occasional roadside stand promising the “sweetest Georgia peaches.” The terrain flattened even more, the hills smoothing out, making way for vast fields and clusters of trees standing like sentinels along the highway.
Somewhere past Cordele, the air began to change. The crisp morning coolness gave way to something warmer, softer, almost heavier. Georgia was loosening its grip, and Florida was pulling us closer. The pine forests thinned slightly, replaced by more open spaces, and the sky seemed to stretch a little wider, as if inviting us farther south.
We rolled through Tifton, then Adel, the towns becoming smaller, their exits less frequent. The road signs now teased us with distances; Valdosta: 22 miles, Florida State Line: 50 miles. There was something about seeing the miles tick down that made the journey feel even more real.
Valdosta, the last major stop before crossing the border, passed in a blur of gas stations, fast food joints, and towering hotel signs. Then came Lake Park, the final stretch of Georgia’s hospitality, its last few chances to stretch, refuel, or grab a bag of boiled peanuts from a roadside stand before leaving the Peach State behind.
And then, in the distance, we could see the structure. The sign sat just past the Florida-Georgia state line, right around mile marker 470 in Hamilton County, Florida. As you roll south on I-75, it’s one of the first things you’ll see after passing through the last Georgia exit. Now, this state’s welcome sign posed a wee bit of a dilemma.
What song to pick for this moment? It’s the Sunshine State, so Walking on Sunshine by Katrina & The Waves seemed like a natural choice. But it didn’t quite feel right.
Kokomo by The Beach Boys? If Florida had a theme song, that might be it. But I can’t stand that whiney depressing song… and it’s just too, well, playaussay.
Runnin' Down a Dream by Tom Petty? A Florida-born legend, with a song that feels like pure road trip magic? I was stumped.
Stuck in this conundrum, I looked over at Ernie and asked, "Don’t think, just act. First thing that pops into your mind, when you think of Florida, what song comes to mind?"
Without hesitation, he replied, Margaritaville by Jimmy Buffett. "Is it even legal to enter Florida without playing at least one Buffett song?"
Fair enough.
I loaded up the song, and as we crossed the Florida border, there it was., Margaritaville blasting through speakers
Now this 3D sign screams Florida with its classic happy bold colors blue background with a bright orange sun and the words "Florida Welcomes You” in cheerful white letters and a camera just to let you know Big Brother Florida is watching you. Palm trees lining the road as if each one was put there to greet you, setting the tone for the tropical vibes ahead.
Right after passing the sign, you’ll come upon the Hamilton County Welcome Center (mile marker 470). This is Florida’s official rest stop for incoming travelers, complete with bathrooms, grass, picnic areas to stretch after a Georgia haul.
We also passed a sign for a toll. Unsure if we were going to have to deal with tolls, I asked one of the park attendants if that was the case. Of course he didn’t know, how would he? Turns out I could purchase one from a vending machine. I was a little leery at first about whether this was actually going to work. I’m not sure why I questioned it, after all, we can buy a vehicle from a huge vending machine, so why not a toll pass?
Remember when I shared what I keep in my notes? Turns out my neurosis paid off. I had to enter VIN numbers, license plates for both vehicles, and other details, and I was glad I had it all handy. The pass was good for Georgia, Florida, and even North Carolina. I purchased one with suction cups, thinking we could take it out of the coach and put it in the car as needed. That lasted exactly one time. We kept forgetting to pass it back and forth. I ended up buying another one for the car.
About a year later, I learned about the “RV Toll Pass” from the FMCA. We decided to go with this one since it covers almost all toll roads from California to Maine. It’s a small box that stays in your RV and works just like other passes. You load the amount you want, and a $14.99 monthly fee is charged only in months when tolls are incurred. We use that only for the coach, and so far, I still have the original Peach Pass decal in my car. We haven’t used the “RV Toll Pass” in over a year, and no charges have been incurred, it’s just there when we need it.
Turns out we didn’t use a toll road to get to Ocala, but my little inner Girl Guide was feeling mighty fulfilled that day, knowing I was prepared.
As we continued south on I-75, the landscape flattened even more, the sky widening above us in an endless stretch of blue. Billboards for orange groves, fresh citrus stands, and alligator-themed attractions popped up along the highway, each one a reminder that we were now in the Sunshine State. The lush green fields that bordered the road weren’t just empty expanses—they were horse country.
Approaching Ocala, the scenery transformed into something truly breathtaking. Massive live oaks lined the roads, their ancient branches arching overhead to create a canopy so thick in places, it felt like driving through a green tunnel. Spanish moss cascaded from their limbs, filtering the sunlight into golden beams that danced across the pavement. There was something both mystical and deeply Southern about it, as if these trees had been standing guard for centuries, watching over the land.
Ocala is internationally renowned for its thoroughbred industry, so much so that in 2001, it officially trademarked the title "Horse Capital of the World." Home to over 400 thoroughbred farms and training centers, Ocala produces some of the finest racehorses in the country. Even along the main roads, the presence of horses was everywhere evident by the iconic white-fenced pastures stretched for miles, each one home to sleek, powerful animals grazing peacefully in the Florida sun. The rolling hills, a rare sight in an otherwise flat state, added to the picturesque charm.
As we wound our way through Ocala, the roads narrowed beneath the ancient oak canopy, their sprawling branches draped in Spanish moss, filtering the sunlight into golden streaks across the pavement. I wasn’t entirely sure we’d be able to navigate some of them with our coach—the towering trees and tight turns made it feel like threading a needle, but somehow, we made it.
We had arrived, ready for an adventure of exploration, where rolling horse pastures, historic charm, and a touch of old Florida awaited. But first, let’s find our if our pasture guests are ready for us…. I’ll save that story for next week. Thank you for tuning in.
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Need to catch up?
Pt 25-From Pee Bottles to Peaches: The Unfiltered Truth of Life on the Road
Or, start from the beginning
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~Karen