It started unwittingly enough. A discarded hand painted sign with a covered wagon on it from a Ford dealership in Detroit. Driving north of the city to my parent's country property and seeing a group of people cooking over an open flame in a large kettle of who knows what; but, I bet it was delicious.
Then, fantasizing about setting something up like that in the country: people sitting on logs enjoying an evening meal cooked over a wood fire, served on those spatterware metal plates. Roasted meats, spicy chile con carne. Fire baked corn bread. Good strong coffee. Maybe a berry buckle or cobbler russelled up in a Dutch oven over the coals.
The birth of "Dave's Chuckwagen". Alas, only a fantasy so far, anyway; not to be, yet. Believe me, I've worked as a line cook in a restaurant and that world is a calling. Everyone in my set seems to have had the fantasy. The reality, however, is another thing; it's a grind. You have to have it in your blood. And, from an early age. I like to cook, that's true. But I also like to take my time, and on my own terms. To please myself, certainly not to try to make a go of it by pleasing the palate du jeur.
As you see the fantasy has evolved:
