Okay, maybe it took nearly 13 hours to get home from North Carolina yesterday – yay, holiday travel! – and possibly my back is still molded into the shape of a 2005 Honda Accord passenger seat. But I can’t call the day a bust, because we stopped at Allman’s in Fredericksburg, Virginia and had what was possibly the best barbeque ever, with the exception of that made by my own dear, sweet husband.*
*Actually, for me it was a tie. Don’t tell him.
Actual sign seen along Route 158 in Currituck County, North Carolina. One must ask: of what?
Quoth Brian: “That’s a bad sign.” Badabing!
My sister is like the poor woman’s Martha Stewart, except that every time you set a holiday table with unpressed linens, Martha pays a coolie to kill a Chow Chow.
We were going to be hosting Thanksgiving at our place this year, and believe me when I say that it would have been a Smackdown of epic proportions that would have taken weeks – nay, months – to properly write up. But then, unbeknownst to us, more people were invited than our apartment can comfortably (or even uncomfortably) hold, and my brain started mis-firing again. Ergo, we are in North Carolina where there are chefs and chefs-in-training bustling about the kitchen and I don’t have to do anything but take pictures and write and eat. And eat. And eat.
And I? Am not complaining.
T-minus one hour. There will be cooking. There will probably be some kind of Thanksgiving-in-July thing. There will be Foo Fighters, which makes total sense. We may finally figure out who Melissa is. Or, you know, not.
The last Frig? finally caused a breakdown with no one approaching the correct answer, which was (and this is verbatim, from the original photo caption): “Salmon with cilantro cream sauce (yuck).”
Disappointment compounding on disappointment: Not only is the world’s largest, oldest cured ham off limits on Mondays BUT the Bob’s Big Boys in the rest stops along I-95 in Maryland no longer have breakfast buffets - they’ve restructured the rest stop to make room for some bullshit seafood restaurant, like we’re all stopping at the Maryland House to refill the tank, take a shit and grab some nice dover sole with rice pilaf.
Where are my powdered eggs? My biscuits with chipped beef in gravy? My unlimited bacon? My scrapple, that I don’t actually eat but find endlessly fascinating? I DEMAND ALL THE FRENCH TOAST STICKS I CAN EAT.
Distressing News the First: Plans to visit the world’s oldest, largest cured ham in Smithfield, Virginia must be aborted. We’re driving down to North Carolina to spend the holiday with my sister, and the ham – cured in 1902 from a 900 POUND PIG and STILL EDIBLE if you scrape off the not-inconsiderable mold layer, a claim which I am willing to take on faith – is en route. The museum containing it, however, is closed on Mondays. FAIL.