Despite lifelong Tennessee residence, I’d never visited the Great Smoky Mountains, unless you count an overnight in Gatlinburg with a youth group. It’s the most-visited national park, but I never had the opportunity to go.

That changed last year, when I was included in an annual hike with a great group up Mount Leconte to spend a night at the lodge. The company, the scenery, the whole experience all left a deep impression. This year, I remembered to bring a camera.The wooden cabins and lodges and the alpine climate are like nothing else in Tennessee, and it feels like a Swiss mountain town. It’s quiet and peaceful and the air is sweet.

There’s very little plumbing — you fill a wash basin from a pump — and no electricity. Cabins are lit by oil lamp, heated with propane and the staff cooks with propane, working by lamps and headlamps. There’s aggressive bear activity in the area, according to the park service. (And since I slept on the floor by the door, bear thoughts were never far from my mind.)

In March, when the season begins, a helicopter brings a massive load of canned and other packaged food to the site. (If you’re willing to spend a week unloading, the lodge offers a week of free room and board.) During the season, llamas trek up the mountain to resupply the lodge, bringing fresh eggs and (just a guess) more wine.

Bears, propane, canned food: Seems like a challenge to cook in those conditions for 40 people twice a day. So it’s a pleasant surprise that the food is good, and it’s even better this year than it was last year.

The meal starts with soup, which was a really good creamy chicken and wild rice this year (vegetable last year).

You can see the glass of wine, refilled frequently by the extraordinarily efficient, patient and physically fit staff, and the thermos of butter lugged up the mountain by one intrepid hiker, who declared that the sensation of cold margarine squishing through her teeth at last year’s meals was something she simply couldn’t repeat.

Main course: beef with gravy, green beans straight outta the can, skillet apples.

For the meatless, black beans. There was chocolate birthday cake this year and last year, freshly baked by the staff.

I didn’t know what to expect from the food. Probably basic hiking food, maybe glorified Rice-A-Roni and oatmeal, rather than flowing wine and chocolate cake. And if there’s just nothing else you can eat on the table, there’s a basket of cookies.

But honestly, here’s the real dessert.

Vacation with the 21 closest members of the immediate family in a mountain house called a “cottage” that holds all of us. Lots of white porches and dirty bare feet and sweaty kids. The moms take the opportunity to drink instead of eat, and the kids scarf junk all day and all night until they collapse in their tracks.

There’s a dining hall on the grounds, run by Nashville’s renowned Emily Frith, offering fresh, small-batch, handmade, knock-your-socks-off food each day.

It’s impossible to gather/convince all 21 people to go, but we make a point of eating at least one lunch, and it never disappoints. Every day there’s freshly handmade gazpacho, black beans and yellow rice, and a great salad bar. The hot entree for the day was beefy mac-n-cheese, and the grills were fired up for grilled chicken and burgers.

Sweet Cheeks ate vegetables without being asked, so she earned a Ghirardelli brownie. Every table was full, and since we eat slowly, the brownies were gone by the time we got there. Once we told Emily how disappointed we were, she herself brought us one from the back. She’s got the heart of a servant, and the whisk of Martha Stewart. If you loved her sesame vinaigrette from back in the day, or you’ve heard of its deliciosity, you can buy it at the Chevron at the corner of Page Road and Harding.

Amtrak to New Orleans for a meticulously planned, precision-timed history-and-eating trip. Things may be dire in New Orleans’ neighborhoods, but the food is back to where it was, loads of new restaurants have opened, the Quarter was crowded and the tourists came to partay. . First stop, Mr. B’s Bistro. For freeform crawfish ravioli. Then to Central Grocery for a muffuletta, Zapp’s chips, and a Barq’s root beer. Righteous. As good as the one I had in ‘96. And the one in 1991. We bought decaffeinated Cafe du Monde at the best price we found in town.

Next day, to the Palace Cafe for Redfish with Andouille Crust in Crystal Hot Sauce Beurre Blanc, the most fantastical discovery. Mellow and hot and savory. Big Fella had pork “potpie,” a vertical creation of cochon au lait and mashed potatoes. We were beginning to bloat by this time, but we persisted. On to Antoine’s, where it was too dark (and we were a wee bit too oiled) for photography. Feelings Cafe in the Faubourg Marigny — what a great neighborhood. And a bargain of a restaurant. Coop’s Place at the back of the Quarter for smoked duck quesadilla and the best fried chicken — yes, better than Prince’s — and a revelatory rabbit and sausage jambalaya. No pictures, because Coop’s ain’t much to look at. And our fingers were greasy.

Dinner with friends at Luke, the John Besh property on the ground floor of the Hilton on St. Charles. House-made pickles, pate and sausages. Moules frites. Pork debris sandwich. Good wines by the glass. A real find.

We felt lucky to eat so many good meals in so many good place. But we probably missed some good ones — where should we go next time?

What we ate in Florida, speakable and unspeakable.

Want to start with the unspeakable?feh and double feh

Enough of the bad and the ugly — no offense to people who love offal — I love ya, you nutbuckets. But for me, I love me a grouper sammich, especially waterside.

With a pickle.

And on our way out of town, a quick meal of Spanish Bean Soup, chicken croquettes and a Cuban sandwich at the flagship of Ibero-Cuban Food.