Don't hold the dingy sign against them.

Though I found plenty to love at the small plate and I wish it was in my neighborhood! restaurants I dined my way through in Philly last weekend, I never felt more me than at Little Pete’s. As I’ve mentioned a time or two before, I grew up Jersey. Diners aren’t just a nice novelty for me. I need them–and their absolute lack of snootiness–as much as I need coffee and oxygen. The first meal in a good new-to-me diner gets me (internally) giddy. And I can be a harsh judge: diners get about five minutes to make me fall in love with them.

Now, Little Pete’s coffee could have been better but I’ll forgive it. The place is wee. A novice staff would be in the weeds within seconds if just one too many people came in the door. But the Little Pete’s staff has it down, shepherding customers to one of seven tables or a seat at the trapezoidalish counter. And though that counter, at first, felt a drop too high, I soon realized that it was the perfect height for propping up a book and an even better height for getting that coffee (good or not) into my system all that much sooner. The cup didn’t have to go very far before I could tip it back. Considering the head discomfort I was in from sipping menu items at Village Whiskey the night before, that counter height made my Sunday morning. And the egg white lox and onions omelet English muffin dry jam on the side was damned good, too.

Now, don’t be put off by the whole it’s-on-PBSKids.org thing. Wee ones will enjoy it but you, you smart funny travel-loving thing you, you’ll looooove it. Wilson & Ditch Digging America is the best travel show ever. Created by The Jim Henson Company, it’s Up meets Ken Burns’ The National Parks blended with a dash-and-a-half of a Mel Brooks musical. But, really, Ken and Mel have nothing on the gopher brothers. The GoBros are from Eastern Europe. And they don’t wear pants.

Joining us for this Three-fer Friday trip through America’s historic homes is Caroline Tiger, a Philadelphia-based freelance writer who writes about quite the wide range of topics but really loves writing about design, France, and Philadelphia. Do yourself a favor and give her super stylish blog, design-phan, a read.

The slightly overstated droop in its roof and deliberately exaggerated tapering of its sandstone walls give the structure a cartoonish look. Photo by barnyardbbs via Flickr (Creative Commons license).

The Wharton Esherick Museum on a forested hilltop in Valley Forge, PA, resembles a fairytale cottage. Esherick, a pioneer of the Studio Furniture movement, thought buildings should appear to grow from their surroundings.  His walls taper like trees.

Every beam, shelf, and piece of sculpture–gleaming from years and layers of boiled linseed oil–was crafted by Esherick while he lived and worked here from the 1920s till his death in 1970. The man had a sense of humor. A docent told me the sculpture of a young woman sheepishly covering her crotch (“Adolescence”) immortalizes his daughter’s embarrassment over her parents’clothing-optional lifestyle. His kids, who turned their father’s home into a museum, left everything as it was. A dogeared copy of Walden still occupies the bookshelf over his bed.–Caroline Tiger

Imagine yourself here. Photo by Sophia Dembling.

How do I choose a favorite? The glorious mansions of Newport, Rhode Island? New York’s Tenement Museum, where my great-uncle Sam Jaffe was born? (Cool, right?) Or back to Oklahoma and the Selman Guest Ranch, where I had breakfast one day last year. The cozy 1920s ranch house, set on 14,000 spectacular acres is filled with unpretentious memorabilia from 100 years of Selman ranchers (Sue Selman and her progeny currently run it). It is among the most evocative houses I’ve ever visited, redolent of Oklahoma history as lived by one family. I wandered the rooms while breakfast sizzled fragrantly on the griddle and snapshots from an imagined past flitted through my mind.–Sophia

One of the Biltmore's 43 bathrooms. Photo courtesty of southerntabitha via Flickr (Creative Commons license).

OK, so it stretches the definition of “house” a bit. But, two years after my visit to Asheville, North Carolina’s Biltmore Estate for Land Rover Experience Driving School, I’m still daydreaming of the parties (some elegant, others raucous) I would love to throw there. As I passed through a few dozen of the house’s 250 rooms, it was easy to picture groups of friends gathered in the library (stocked with 10,000 books), throwing strikes in the bowling alley, or drinking it up in the basement room that Cornelia Vanderbilt and friends painted with crazy murals during their own party. Though, as far as houses go, the Biltmore is planted firmly at massive–it’s America’s largest private home–it felt surprisingly cozy. And, oh, that library.–Jenna