Weekends in Michigan are all about those little rituals, usually involving a specific booth and a mug of coffee that never seems to go empty. I’ve spent so many Saturday mornings watching the fog lift off the fields from the window of a local diner that just feels like home.
These spots aren’t exactly state secrets, but they feel personal, like the waitress actually remembers how you like your toast. There’s a comfort in knowing exactly what you’re going to get before you even pull into the gravel parking lot and shut off the engine.
You’ll always find that low hum of local gossip, a bit of steam on the windows, and food that doesn’t try too hard to be fancy. To me, that sound of a busy kitchen and the smell of sizzling bacon is the only way a Michigan weekend should ever start…