How I Lost My Religion at Buc-ee’s

It’s complicated what happened to me at Buc-ee’s the other day.

I would say I was losing my religion, even though I found out that “Losing My Religion” is a Southern expression that refers to losing one’s temper.

Sorry, Michael Stipe, but that’s just confusing.

When I say losing my religion, I mean it in a more literal way.

To be honest, I’m not sure there was ever anything to lose. But hypothetically, had it ever been there in the first place, Buc-ee’s taught me that, in the way one can be born again, one can also be lost again.

The story really starts somewhere in India, back in the middle of the 20th century around the time of independence.

Then came an ocean crossing, via air.

By the time the progeny arrived—in Milwaukee of all places—some things had already been diluted.

Bovine sacrality was one of them.

Happy meals did in fact make me happy. Later, I dabbled in Big Macs and Whoppers as well.

Despite having maximized my height, conversion to veganism was never more than a fleeting thought.

That’s why when I first discovered Buc-ee’s (rhymes with Lucky’s), it was my Tirupati.

The chain was founded in 1982 in Texas and has slowly expanded its Southern footprint ever since.

Think of a highway service area with lines for gas, grimy bathrooms, and a cramped shack with processed snacks.

Now replace that with about 120 gas pumps (and EV charging stations to boot), vast sparkling bathrooms, and 70,000 square feet full of basically everything, most of which you don’t need but mysteriously want.

There’s a beaver mascot, a ludicrous amount of “fresh” jerky, and brisket—we’ll get to that in a minute.

Managers of these places, open 24 hours a day, make well into the six figures.

If you’ve ever wondered what it means to be American, skip the political rhetoric and stop by a Buc-ee’s instead.

On August 13, 2025, that’s what my family and I did.

Finding ourselves somewhere in Kentucky—not far from the Tennessee border—and having just crossed into the Central Time Zone after a grueling journey starting near the Canadian border, we knew where we belonged.

After filling up gas (no lines) and taking a picture with a sculpture of the beaver, we entered to the cheerful greeting of an employee.

The (spick-and-span) bathrooms beckoned, as did apparently the T-shirts—my son picked a red one.

We wandered for a minute, knowing that when it came to nourishment, despite the endless options, there was truly only one.

We each grabbed a sandwich and made our way to the dining room—aka the car.

I slowly opened the wrapper, closed my eyes, and inhaled the fumes.

Then, with my eyes still closed, I took the first bite, savoring a brief flash of bread followed by some of the finest brisket I’ve ever had. My family, less experienced, followed suit.

In unison, we paused and looked at each other, realizing exactly what had happened.

As we lost our religion (again), we had found a tiny slice** of heaven.

(**We opted for the chopped brisket as opposed to the sliced variety.)