Homesickness isn’t talked about enough, or perhaps I’ve just never truly left home in this vibrant, soul-searching manner before. My life, a winding river, has carried me beyond the familiar banks of Los Angeles proper on a handful of occasions. As a United States Sailor, I was stationed in Coronado, a time marked by endless sunshine and clear skies. Then followed the whisper of true love to Rhode Island, ultimately letting the crisp Northeast air hold me for a year. I’ve since found refuge in just about every major, bustling corner of Los Angeles County — from the wide-open spaces of Lancaster to the ocean breezes of Playa Vista, winding through the diverse energy of Long Beach, back towards Torrance, even, remarkably, finding shelter in a Target parking lot. For those who know the intricate weave of my life, it’s a saga of constant ins and outs — those “oh shit” moments calling a friend about a sudden move, or the bright idea of living in a casino. So, it was a genuine surprise when, after I had moved to Ohio last year, a friend expressed admiration for my seemingly nomadic spirit. I suppose that’s a testament to how well I’ve concealed the hardships of homelessness over the years. Unlikely as it sounds, my frequent moves weren’t a reflection of a carefree wandering spirit, but rather a direct consequence of trouble and instability. While I genuinely enjoy traveling and seeing different things, my heart has always yearned for a singular place to call home — a sanctuary I’ve largely been denied for much of my life. Beneath the surface of my outward journey, there’s been quite a bit of turbulence, instability, and the deep shadows of severe depression woven into my life’s folklore.
Now, I stand on the cusp of 42 this coming September, a grown man charting new waters. Perhaps for the second or third time in my adult life, I’ve managed to grasp stability, but for the very first time, the end isn’t clearly etched — and that, frankly, is terrifying. You see, previously, yes, I always had a place to rest my head, a shield from the elements, but it was always temporary; the “shoe drop” was a distinct, undeniable echo on the horizon. This time, it’s different. I hold a stable job, one I believe I handle well; my rent is paid, my utilities are covered, and the coming months’ expenses feel securely anchored. The pivotal point is, I’m gazing 90 days ahead from trouble, rather than facing the immediate crash when disaster strikes. Despite this newfound, solid ground, I’m still profoundly scared, and riding high atop that fear is a pervasive loneliness.
I find myself rooted in Troy, Ohio, a small suburb nestled about 30 minutes north of Dayton. The community of Troy is welcoming; it’s like a big, small country town, quite different from Greenville, OH, where I worked before becoming 100% remote — a very small town with classic small-town energy. Troy isn’t quite that, but it’s still smaller than Dayton, which doesn’t hold a candle to a place like Los Angeles. Overall, Ohio feels like an alien landscape to me. The freeway, often a concrete river of solitude, is always empty. Even an accident, unlike L.A.’s infamous gridlock, barely causes a ripple — no complete and utter shutdown like those soul-crushing jams on the 405, the 10, the 110, or the 105 that can steal an entire day, to say nothing of the surface street shenanigans. Here, I haven’t even heard the distinct thrum of a police helicopter. And while the community isn’t entirely Caucasian, the diversity is remarkably sparse. I don’t quite know how to articulate my feelings about that, but simply acknowledging it reveals a resonance deep within me, a subtle longing for the varied experiences I’ve known.
A Vibrant Taste of Home at Morgan’s
Then came Morgan’s. After hearing whispers of it on TikTok some time ago, I finally stepped through its doors today. Upon my arrival, the dining room and bar areas were relatively quiet, a calm before a delightful storm. A few patrons waited for their orders, and two young women with a baby shared a meal. What truly illuminated the space was the predominantly Black American staff and patrons. As I sat there waiting for my food, there was a sense of normalcy or familiarity in the air, much like being in a barbershop. The restaurant transformed into a lively, revolving door of people eagerly picking up their orders. Turns out, this brick-and-mortar gem is in its sweet infancy, having blossomed from a thriving food truck and catering business. Dine-in service, a work in progress, will truly shine once their liquor license arrives, expected in late August 2025.
I haven’t been in the vibrant presence of “my people” since landing in Ohio. I confess, I typically shy away from discussions of race; I think I’ve touched upon it perhaps twice in my professional writing career. But truthfully, it shouldn’t be a topic to avoid. Culture and customs are the very essence of who we are, especially when the conversation turns to food. Food isn’t just sustenance; it’s a uniting mechanism, a universal language that brings people from all walks of life together. It is the very fabric upon which relationships are built and passionately maintained. Eating in a place specializing in the Black American way of preparing food, a place that is unapologetically Black, filled me with a profound sense of comfort. There was a palpable warmth in the environment, a feeling I hadn’t fully experienced here. It felt like going to Dulan’s Soul Food Kitchen on a bustling Friday or Saturday night, or after church on a Sunday, soaking in the genuine, soulful energy. There was a distinct, homely vibe, echoing in the air as young men entering greeted the male staff as “Unc” and were met with the warm, reciprocal response of “How’s it going, Nephew.”
I chose the cabbage with my meal. The cabbage was good, though it lacked the bacon or ham hock I figured it would have. But hey, I’m not in Georgia or the Mississippi Delta, so I guess I can forgive the lack of bacon. The lamb chops were cooked exceptionally well, fork-tender and richly drenched in sauce. While I normally prefer unsauced meat, in this instance, the sauces truly carried the flavors. Lamb can sometimes be a bit tart and gamey, but there was a delightful sweetness in the sauces that made the lamb truly interesting. I would confidently offer it to someone who claimed not to like gamey meats, secure in my suggestion. The mac and cheese was astounding, truly worthy of a standing ovation. So many restaurants fumble mac and cheese, making ordering it a chore ripe with disappointment. But Morgan’s did it right — it was perfectly creamy, wonderfully cheesy, built with a Béchamel sauce, and topped with oven-baked grated cheese, just the way Nana intended. The pasta was cooked just right, neither overly soft nor al dente.
This experience at Morgan’s brought a much-needed wave of comfort. I am still deeply homesick, a feeling I don’t fully understand and one that, ironically, carries a physical ache. But every now and then, a place like Morgan’s comes along and makes that pain just a little bit less.
This essay was first published on Medium and now lives in the Quincy James Freeman archive.
This review was written and paid for like every other one on this site: with my own money, no sponsorships, no comped meals. If it helped you decide where to eat, a coffee helps keep it that way.
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