Green Acres is the Place to Be

Riddle me this: Why would Karen take the Gum Spring exit for the second time in 48 hours?

To hold a chicken, watch cow sex and have dinner with a farmer.

No, really.

My road trip was a picaresque drive up Route 522, right through downtown Mineral where, much to my surprise, there were a couple of horseback riders trotting down Main Street.

Once in downtown Culpeper, I began to recognize places from a trip there six years ago to shoot video.

Back in the prehistoric 9-5 days, god forbid.

Following directions that said to go up a hill, down a hill and up a hill, I eventually I got to the farm, set on a series of rolling hills on 115 acres.

The farm dogs were the welcoming committee: two hounds, a retriever and a miniature Australian shepherd with one blue eye and one brown eye and no tail.

After a tour of the "farmhouse," which looked far more chalet-like than rustic with planed log walls, a magnificent, handset, two-story dry-stone fireplace, heated floors and enormous windows that looked out over pond and pasture, we went for a tour.

That involved a Kubota RTV and a whole lot of driving through fields and wood, my skirt flapping in the breeze.

Thank goodness for leggings.

First stop was the chick house where 70 little balls of fluff peeped and circled our feet, reminding me of the chicks my class raised in the second grade.

I got my first major bonus points when we visited the pigs, where after being shown heritage breeds like Berkshire and Tamworth, I commented to his amazement on what good eating they were.

In. Like. Flint.

Next came the cows, including a very sweet Momma and calf off to the side of the herd, probably a good thing once the bull decided to mount a potential mate right in front of us.

Bulls are in and out faster than you might think...if you ever thought about bull sex.

We stopped by the chickens to collect brown eggs (two dozen of which I was gifted with) and I was told that the enormous double-yolked eggs came from the oldest hens.

Old or not, ouch.

Our final stop was up in the woods where Fred and Wilma lived with two goats.

Fred's a Berkshire and Wilma's a Tamworth and they'd just had eight piglets last month who'd been recently moved away to their own pen, much to Wilma's displeasure.

The Flintstones have the easiest job on the farm as far as I could see: have sex and eat.

That explained their pleasant demeanor.

Once my first RTV ride was over, it was back to the house for happy hour and conversation.

I was as good at this as Fred and Wilma are at their job.

The farmer made it easy, I'll admit. He had a wonderfully sarcastic and self-deprecating sense of humor so once the conversation began, it never really stopped.

"We're a natural. You write about food and I raise it," he said to explain why two people who'd recently met were finding so much to talk about.

For the record, we were talking about his diverse roots and my sisters at the time.

He told me about his mother, who was from Queens, and what happened when she stood with the refrigerator open and the family cat jumped inside.

The imitation of his Jewish mother freaking out had me doubled over.

I heard about the band he used to play in, the epic Halloween parties he throws (got my invite) and his insomnia.

He even showed me his guitar. And, no, that's not a metaphor. It was a Paul Reed Smith.

Once we'd gotten acquainted, it was time to head into town for dinner.

He suggested Culpeper Cattle Co. because his pig is served there and the owner is a friend.

Of course, in a town that size, no doubt everyone is a friend.

The tiny restaurant was off the main drag but it was obvious plenty of people knew about it.

We took a booth and I started to look at the menu, but the farmer took charge.

Asking if I trusted him, I assured him I eat anything so he asked to order for both of us.

Fine by me. Here, take the reins.

At his insistence, we began with hog wings, fat little fried drumettes of pig on the bone.

I was told to eat one as is before adding the house sauce (nine squirt bottles of it a month grow legs and leave, never to be seen again), a stellar Carolina version.

Honestly, if we didn't have so much food coming, I'd have ordered another eight hog wings and been plenty happy.

And it was so much food.

An enormous medium-rare rib-eye.  Six Memphis dry-rub rib tips. Collards, green beans, baked beans, cole slaw, cornbread.

Meals so large they came on tray-sized plates.

I started with the steak and he with the ribs, him seeking my okay every bite of the way.

Midway through, we traded plates so I could have some ribs.

I took a couple of bites before he took control, instructing me to douse the rib in his friend's Carolina sauce.

"Otherwise, it's like a pipe without the crack," he joked, practically making me spit sauce in his face.

Who knew farmers were so funny?

By the time we were in a food coma, our server came back asking about dessert.

I had no room for it, but he wanted my opinion.

As a customer at the restaurant since it opened a couple years ago, his only criticism of the food had been the lackluster cheesecake they served.

As a former New Yorker, his cheesecake standards were high and he suggested to his friend that he find something better than what he'd been serving.

He had, so we had a slice of the classic cheesecake, delicately flavored, not overly sweet or heavy.

I had three bites, but the farmer, who'd been driving tractors, moving pigs and stacking firewood all day had no problem polishing off the rest.

Waddling out to the street, he was already telling me about the next restaurant we need to try, but I suggested it be in Richmond.

Not a problem, he said, I'll get in the left lane on 95, break the law and be there in no time.

It was a mighty sweet offer to contemplate.

Before we'd left for the restaurant, he'd wanted to make sure I couldn't forget what a lovely day I'd had on the farm, so he'd insisted on sending me home with pig, chicken and rabbit to go with all those eggs we'd collected.

About to put two chops in a bag, he'd stopped, grinned and asked, "Do you have a boyfriend? Should I increase it to four?"

Can't say that I do.

Two will be plenty, thank you very much.

For the moment, anyway.