Taking a cue from the National -
So happy I was invited
Give me a reason to get out of the city
- I accepted an invitation for a road trip out of Richmond today. Shortly after 11 a.m., we were headed west on I-64 toward Nelson County, leaving cloudy skies behind for sunshine over the mountains.
Our first stop was at Dr. Ho's Humble Pie, fantastically named and improbably located in a giant corner white strip center with a doctor's office, a beautiful goddess spa and a gas station.
You know, for all your country living needs.
Inside, the spacious room was a pastiche of funky signs, posters and photos (a Kodak Film sign was mounted on a column by the lunch counter) and the music was solidly '70s: Spinners, Jackson Brown, Foreigner.
Most importantly, the pizza was right on with a properly chewy crust on our white pizza with housemade hot Italian sausage, spinach and mushrooms. Years ago, a blog reader gave me a hard time because I always order meat on a white pizza, but I will defend to the death my right to go white and eat meat simultaneously.
After enduring an Eagles song and stuffing ourselves silly with spinach salad and pie, we did the only logical thing and went for a hike.
Our destination was Delfosse winery, which was closed, because it's there that you pick up the the Delfosse Trail, part of Nelson County's department of conservation and recreation but located on the winery's land.
And may I just say, kudos to Delfosse for sharing their largess with the little people.
Parking behind the charming log cabin they rent out for parties, we started up a steep gravel hill to pick up the trail head. One thing immediately became clear: this was not a hill for the out of shape. Luckily, I'm not.
Making our way along the trail, a series of hills and ravines, we had a terrific view of the forest (a popular hunting ground November through January), something we won't have if we hike it again come Summer when the trees have leafed out.
But for now, we could see for great distances.
Before long, we had to go through a weighted gate in the fencing that prevents deer from snacking on the grape vines. Along the way were more than a few rock piles where people had artfully stacked rocks of descending size in the Japanese manner (naturally I added one of my own).
After an hour of fairly strenuous hiking, we were back at the log cabin snooping through the windows at the space and relaxing on the swing on the porch.
You walk the walk, then you drink the wine.
Just a few miles down the road was Democracy Vineyards where we spotted three people working in the fields and no one in the winery. Before long, though, the owner abandoned his fence-mending on the hill and came down to greet us in the tasting room lined with campaign posters and political artwork.
When he heard we'd been on the Delfosse Trail, he grinned. "You know they've been spotting bears on that trail. We're not near any wood line, so they're not a problem for us."
Let's just say I was glad to hear the bear news after the hike rather than before.
The glass garage door was rolled up so we could get out to the patio where we sat on wicker chairs with cushions and sipped a bottle of Declaration, their signature white blend while watching the activity in the vineyard and buzzards scouring the fields. Men and birds were hard at work.
Us, not so much.
I mentioned that it was a shame there was no music so I could get up on the table and dance and lo and behold, music was put on. For the record, I did not dance at Democracy.
After a bit, the owner joined us on the patio and shared stories of his days as a lobbyist. He laughed about how strict the General Assembly has gotten about accepting gifts ("It was a little bag of chocolate-covered peanuts!") and bemoaned the challenges he'd faced in getting his ABC licensing because he'd done business with so many of the agents in the past.
When we got off on a prolonged tangent about gerrymandered districts and local politicians, I expressed concern that we were keeping him from his fence fixing. "I'm done for today!" he said emphatically, no doubt one of the benefits of being the boss.
After a sunny drive to Charlottesville, we decided on Mas for dinner, taking a new route to the Belmont neighborhood to get there. We arrived early enough to be the first people at the bar for dinner, but hardly the last.
Since a road trip is as fine an occasion for celebration as any, we chose Castell d'Age Anne Marie Comtesse Brut Nature Reserva, arriving in the loveliest bottle adorned with what looked like an etched white floral pattern and tasting of ripe fruit. Cheers.
Then it was on to eye candy. No one had ever told me that the large-format black and white photographs on the wall were of the staff, so with that knowledge, I couldn't resist trying to match up faces.
In the case of the photo hanging over the bar of a guy in a toreador suit with the, ahem, obscenely large package, unfortunately I didn't see him, despite looking. Hard.
Must have been his night off, drat the luck.
Mas' bar is such a pleasant place to eat, observe and linger, assuming you can ignore the line of waiting guests. It's wide with fresh flowers - tonight's were tulips - while a silver compote dish held blood oranges, a thoroughly pleasing tableau. Plus there's a great view of the kitchen as food is prepared.
The only downside of bar seating occurs when the sun drops just low enough in the sky that it beams directly through the west-facing front door into the eyes of bar sitters. That was us.
We managed as best we could until the sun made it below the roof lines mainly by focusing on plate after plate of food.
Thin slices of Jamon Serrano and aged Manchego we ate with our fingers while a salad of baby lettuces and dandelion greens, fava leaves, kumquat (for the second time in 24 hours), beets and more Manchego (well, it is a Spanish place) required utensils.
Delivering some serious chili pepper heat was Pulpo, a deep bowl of local pork belly, Spanish octopus, salsa espelette, San Marzano tomatoes, mint, basil and semolina noodles cooked to toothsome perfection. I'm usually not much of a pasta person, but the coarser semolina speaks to me.
Sitting next to us was a Charles Manson lookalike and a hippie chick wearing knitted forearm warmers (very Stevie Nicks-like).
She kept looking over until finally asking our opinion of the octopus dish. I highly recommended it with the caveat that it was spicy. "I love spicy!" she enthused, lifting her arm with its unshaven arm pit, so '70s.
Go for it, honey. They did and they loved it. I'm always happy to be of service to the patchouli crowd.
The undisputed stars of the meal were two orders of huge wild-caught Gulf shrimp grilled and served with a buttery green garlic aioli. The meaty shrimp tasted more like lobster, even more so after a swipe in the rich aioli which also adorned every bite of bread I put in my mouth.
One of tonight's many topics was "change you can believe in," a compelling premise since it can be argued that it's impossible to determine the point at which you accept that change is real. And what if the change you thought you wanted ends up disappointing you? What if one change by rights deserves another and it isn't forthcoming?
That conversation got tabled in favor of finishing the bubbles in our glasses and hitting the road for home. In the few seconds it took us to stand up, a guy scooted over from his waiting position in the doorway to claim our stools, already warmed up for him.
All yours, friend. I'd gotten out of the city and I was ready to go back now, changes and all.
So happy I was invited.
Showing posts with label democracy vineyards. Show all posts
Showing posts with label democracy vineyards. Show all posts
Monday, March 23, 2015
Sunday, February 8, 2015
Get Lucky
I sacrificed "Roadhouse" for Democracy.
And that wasn't an easy choice with a tagline like, "The dancing is over. Now it gets dirty." It's so bad, it's good.
Movie Club was showing the 1989 "B" movie classic but I'd already said yes to the Democracy Vineyards Valentine's wine dinner at Camden's. So while I would have loved watching Patrick Swayze play bouncer, I instead spent the evening with a couple of lobbyists who now make wine.
When I arrived, I found a room at capacity, a stool at the bar and an air of enthusiasm for what was to come in the room. Did these people not care that "Roadhouse" was playing a few miles away?
Turns out their minds were focused in other directions.
The evening began with the chef assuring us that the menu was laden with aphrodisiacs "guaranteed to get you laid!" He'd even gone so far as to underline them on the menu - scallops, bacon, pomegranate, cheese, salmon, fig, mushrooms, all kinds of yummy stuff. Our chances looked good for scoring.
One woman piped up saying, "Do we have to tell you when we do?" To ensure carnal success, he also put on the Marvin Gaye Pandora station to get everyone in the mood.
Ah, this was why people took a chance on the wine dinner over "Roadhouse."
The winery owners, he a former lobbyist and she still doing it, wound up sitting at the bar next to me, making for lots of great stories throughout the night as we chowed through five courses.
Scallop ceviche with apple gastrique and housemade bacon over kale was paired with a German-style apple wine called Village View Gold, made from a hybrid apple developed after Hurricane Camille. When the woman next to me left her kale, I finished it for her.
Declaration, a white blend, was a lovely match for a salad of arugula (inexplicably an aphrodisiac), roasted beets, goat cheese and pomegranate dressing with toasted bread crumbs. The winery owner's wife commented about how challenging pairing salad with wine was and how impressed she'd been with this combination.
Between courses, I chatted with the kale hater about the candle holders on the bar, raffia-covered Chianti bottles with candles in them leaving a waxy coating on the bottle. "They're so doggone '60s," she commented. True that, although then colored candles were used for a variegated effect on the bottle. This was more neo-'60s.
Grilled salmon over polenta cake with wilted spinach, dried mission figs (which I could eat all day) and Hollandaise got paired with Forum, a blend of 2/3 Merlot and 1/3 Pinotage.
When I mentioned that pinotage was a favorite grape of mine, the winemaker's wife and I got into a discussion of visiting South Africa. I haven't been since 2004 while she'd gone in 2010 ("Oh, you have to go back") and we compared notes on the people, wines and terrain we'd experienced.
It's so rare that I meet someone who has a frame of reference for that kind of talk.
The next wine was Suffrage, made with the Chambourcin grape and the woman to my right took one sip and smiled widely. "This is my kind of red," she said. "I'm a red meat kind of a gal."
Fortunately for her, our next course was rosemary roasted tenderloin of Angus with red wine Bordelaise, roasted oak mushrooms and fingerling potatoes. The tenderloin lived up to its name with a texture like butter and a robust beef flavor.
By that point, the room was noisy with the exuberant chatter of people after four wines and so much good food. Patrick Swayze was becoming a distant memory.
Overhead, the music was so good - Isley Brothers, Stylistics, Billy paul - that I pulled out my stock question, asking the women on either side of me about their first concert. One was John Denver and the other was the Supremes. Coincidentally, a Supremes' song, "You Can't Hurry Love" was playing at that moment.
The final course thrilled some and disappointed others. Gorgonzola cheesecake with graham cracker crust and 70% cocoa ganache turned the idea of a sweet dessert on its ear. Sweetness came in the form of Parliament, a Petit Verdot dessert wine with 7% residual sugar.
Now, me, I love stinky cheese. I'll lick a barnyard floor any day. Ditto the winemaker's wife. But the woman to my right took one bite of the cheesecake and her face curled up as if she'd eaten a lemon. Even after I suggested she sip the sweet wine, she found no pleasure in the dessert. Her loss.
Instead of the usual show and tell before each course, the winemaker had gone table to table to discus the wines with people, making friends along the way and working the room like a pro, which he was given his lobbyist career.
In fact, his wife told me that when he'd first asked her out 20 years ago, she'd assumed he needed a political favor. Her initial impression was that he was some kind of wheeler dealer. It was only after he pulled out an invitation to the Clinton White House Christmas party and asked her to join him that she saw him differently.
Of course she'd gone (and eventually married him) although she admitted to being too nervous to drink for fear she'd break something in the White House. "The velvet ropes were down and you could sit on the East Room furniture," she marveled.
She'd even seen the inscription on the state dining room fireplace with the John Adams quote that reads, "May none but honest and wise men ever rule under this roof."
"They're going to have to change that wording and add 'woman' when Hillary gets elected," she laughed. Yes, they are.
By the end of the meal, everyone was stuffed, loopy and looking pretty satisfied with life. One woman gave her server a $100 tip. Lots of people ordered bottles of the wine we'd been drinking.
My tip was more modest and I can't afford to order wine but I'd enjoyed fascinating conversation with two very different women about how differently men are wired. And not everyone has a man, meaning not all of us were getting laid tonight even after all those assists from the menu.
Doesn't seem very democratic, does it?
And that wasn't an easy choice with a tagline like, "The dancing is over. Now it gets dirty." It's so bad, it's good.
Movie Club was showing the 1989 "B" movie classic but I'd already said yes to the Democracy Vineyards Valentine's wine dinner at Camden's. So while I would have loved watching Patrick Swayze play bouncer, I instead spent the evening with a couple of lobbyists who now make wine.
When I arrived, I found a room at capacity, a stool at the bar and an air of enthusiasm for what was to come in the room. Did these people not care that "Roadhouse" was playing a few miles away?
Turns out their minds were focused in other directions.
The evening began with the chef assuring us that the menu was laden with aphrodisiacs "guaranteed to get you laid!" He'd even gone so far as to underline them on the menu - scallops, bacon, pomegranate, cheese, salmon, fig, mushrooms, all kinds of yummy stuff. Our chances looked good for scoring.
One woman piped up saying, "Do we have to tell you when we do?" To ensure carnal success, he also put on the Marvin Gaye Pandora station to get everyone in the mood.
Ah, this was why people took a chance on the wine dinner over "Roadhouse."
The winery owners, he a former lobbyist and she still doing it, wound up sitting at the bar next to me, making for lots of great stories throughout the night as we chowed through five courses.
Scallop ceviche with apple gastrique and housemade bacon over kale was paired with a German-style apple wine called Village View Gold, made from a hybrid apple developed after Hurricane Camille. When the woman next to me left her kale, I finished it for her.
Declaration, a white blend, was a lovely match for a salad of arugula (inexplicably an aphrodisiac), roasted beets, goat cheese and pomegranate dressing with toasted bread crumbs. The winery owner's wife commented about how challenging pairing salad with wine was and how impressed she'd been with this combination.
Between courses, I chatted with the kale hater about the candle holders on the bar, raffia-covered Chianti bottles with candles in them leaving a waxy coating on the bottle. "They're so doggone '60s," she commented. True that, although then colored candles were used for a variegated effect on the bottle. This was more neo-'60s.
Grilled salmon over polenta cake with wilted spinach, dried mission figs (which I could eat all day) and Hollandaise got paired with Forum, a blend of 2/3 Merlot and 1/3 Pinotage.
When I mentioned that pinotage was a favorite grape of mine, the winemaker's wife and I got into a discussion of visiting South Africa. I haven't been since 2004 while she'd gone in 2010 ("Oh, you have to go back") and we compared notes on the people, wines and terrain we'd experienced.
It's so rare that I meet someone who has a frame of reference for that kind of talk.
The next wine was Suffrage, made with the Chambourcin grape and the woman to my right took one sip and smiled widely. "This is my kind of red," she said. "I'm a red meat kind of a gal."
Fortunately for her, our next course was rosemary roasted tenderloin of Angus with red wine Bordelaise, roasted oak mushrooms and fingerling potatoes. The tenderloin lived up to its name with a texture like butter and a robust beef flavor.
By that point, the room was noisy with the exuberant chatter of people after four wines and so much good food. Patrick Swayze was becoming a distant memory.
Overhead, the music was so good - Isley Brothers, Stylistics, Billy paul - that I pulled out my stock question, asking the women on either side of me about their first concert. One was John Denver and the other was the Supremes. Coincidentally, a Supremes' song, "You Can't Hurry Love" was playing at that moment.
The final course thrilled some and disappointed others. Gorgonzola cheesecake with graham cracker crust and 70% cocoa ganache turned the idea of a sweet dessert on its ear. Sweetness came in the form of Parliament, a Petit Verdot dessert wine with 7% residual sugar.
Now, me, I love stinky cheese. I'll lick a barnyard floor any day. Ditto the winemaker's wife. But the woman to my right took one bite of the cheesecake and her face curled up as if she'd eaten a lemon. Even after I suggested she sip the sweet wine, she found no pleasure in the dessert. Her loss.
Instead of the usual show and tell before each course, the winemaker had gone table to table to discus the wines with people, making friends along the way and working the room like a pro, which he was given his lobbyist career.
In fact, his wife told me that when he'd first asked her out 20 years ago, she'd assumed he needed a political favor. Her initial impression was that he was some kind of wheeler dealer. It was only after he pulled out an invitation to the Clinton White House Christmas party and asked her to join him that she saw him differently.
Of course she'd gone (and eventually married him) although she admitted to being too nervous to drink for fear she'd break something in the White House. "The velvet ropes were down and you could sit on the East Room furniture," she marveled.
She'd even seen the inscription on the state dining room fireplace with the John Adams quote that reads, "May none but honest and wise men ever rule under this roof."
"They're going to have to change that wording and add 'woman' when Hillary gets elected," she laughed. Yes, they are.
By the end of the meal, everyone was stuffed, loopy and looking pretty satisfied with life. One woman gave her server a $100 tip. Lots of people ordered bottles of the wine we'd been drinking.
My tip was more modest and I can't afford to order wine but I'd enjoyed fascinating conversation with two very different women about how differently men are wired. And not everyone has a man, meaning not all of us were getting laid tonight even after all those assists from the menu.
Doesn't seem very democratic, does it?
Tuesday, October 7, 2014
Westbound Number 9
I'm getting good at the quick getaway.
After Saturday night's killer dance extravaganza with Mr. Fine Wine, I didn't even get up until mid-day Sunday, so the quick trip got a late start.
Not that there's anything wrong with that. Who knows when he'll be back in town again?
Necessities and the Sunday Washington Post were thrown in a bag, lunch of fried chicken from Lee's was procured and I was westward-bound not long after 1.
Not bad for someone whose feet didn't hit the floor until almost noon.
Stop one was Lickinghole Creek Brewery for Bluegrass Sunday. This week's band was the Creekside Pickers - mandolin, dobro, guitar, banjo and upright bass -singing with the fields of hops behind them. There were plenty of people there to hear their classic pickin'...or drink beer, I don't know which.
You know which reason had me there.
Two of the music-lovers chose to sit down at the table where I was sitting and, as it turned out, had gone to high school with the dobro player.
Even better, she just happened to have the proof: her 1968 Huguenot High yearbook.
After she showed it to her former schoolmate and they showed it to the dobro player, assuring him that he looked just the same, I asked to borrow it to take in the faces, clothing and ads of 1968. It was some kind of classic.
Most of the boys had bangs swept to the side. Most of the girls had carefully arranged flips and pageboys. There were clubs such as Future Farmers of America, Future Teachers of America and - surely on its way out in '68 - Future Homemakers of America.
There was a school pep rally and lecture warning of the dangers of hallucinogenic drugs. There were a lot of American muscle cars in the school parking lot. And the cheerleaders' skirts came down to their knees.
Some of the best reading was in the back where the class of '68 had sold ads to local businesses, many of them in the Westover Hills and Forest Hills area.
But I spotted one for a car dealership on Broad Street two blocks from where I live, where a Rite-Aid now sits. So I was learning new things about my neighborhood while looking at a civilization that no longer exists.
Let me tell you, I was some kind of sorry when the yearbook's owner decided to leave and take my entertainment away.
Dinner was old school at the Cumberland Diner, a place that has a separate dining room for smokers (and advertises it on their sign) where I had a double cheeseburger, fries and a chocolate shake (made with the kind of milkshake maker my family had when I was young) and delivered in a metal cup with a long-handled spoon.
Probably a lot like they did in 1968 when those Huguenot High kids went on dates.
Monday dawned sunny and warmer, ideal for a drive to Lovingston to winery hop and procure apples from an orchard.
Arriving at Democracy Vineyards to find a handwritten note on the door saying everyone was harvesting in the fields, we turned around to go just as a voice called down from the vineyards that he was on his way.
The affable owner, clad in one-piece coveralls, drove his mule down from the Petit Manseng fields and welcomed us into the high-ceilinged tasting room decorated with original political posters from around the world and dating back to the 19th century.
My favorite was a WPA sign for a sewer project hanging in the loo.
He called himself and his wife "recovering lobbyists" and lamented the dangers of letting an architect friend design the soaring building complete with a colorful sign on the front.
"Cause nothing says 'farm winery' like an ostentatious back-lit, red, white and blue sign," he joked self-deprecatingly.
I was pleasantly surprised to find that they grow Pinotage, South Africa's signature grape, and one he'd fallen for while there, much as I had.
All the wines had patriotic names -Republic, Dawn's Light, Suffrage - and we tasted through them before taking glasses of Declaration 2013, a Chardonnay, Viognier and Petit Manseng blend, out to the porch overlooking the hills and fields to sip.
Then it was on to Drumheller's Orchard (established 1937) to get apples (Jonagolds) for cooking. My only regret was that it wasn't the weekend, so there were no hayrides and the apple sling shot wasn't in use.
Who wouldn't be curious about an apple slingshot?
A stop at Blue Ridge Pig for pig and beef barbecue sandwiches (in a rustic, log-style building with enough dusty brick-a-brack to outfit three restaurants) was better enjoyed outside on a sunny picnic table (near a stern sign warning "Absolutely NO alcohol!") next to a car wash where a man was sudsing his front end with his hands.
Cause, apparently, we don't need no stinkin' sponges in Lovingston.
Then it was time for the outbuildings tour. Headed down the gravel path to the bathroom, outside naturally, I came upon the smokehouse, a tiny wooden building with an enormous stone chimney that announced itself with the aroma of smoke as you approached it.
With that smell still on our hands, we wound through sunny back roads to King Family Winery to round out the trip.
A dozen other people were in the tasting room, more than I'd have expected late in the afternoon on a Monday. After tasting through the wines, we took a bottle of their sparkling (which they weren't even making last time I'd been there) out to a table overlooking the polo field to enjoy it as clouds rolled in over the mountains and the sky went from blue to dramatic.
After dinner at Tavern on the James in Scottsville - they were out of the appealingly-named clodhopper steak unfortunately - it was time to take it back to Saturday night.
That's right, sitting outside on the porch swing, the nearly full moon so bright that trees were casting dramatic shadows on the lawn, we tuned into Mr. Fine Wine so I could have another outstanding evening of his vintage soul music.
Just doesn't get much better than Downtown Soulville on a Monday night.
My quick trip had taken me full circle. Mercy!
After Saturday night's killer dance extravaganza with Mr. Fine Wine, I didn't even get up until mid-day Sunday, so the quick trip got a late start.
Not that there's anything wrong with that. Who knows when he'll be back in town again?
Necessities and the Sunday Washington Post were thrown in a bag, lunch of fried chicken from Lee's was procured and I was westward-bound not long after 1.
Not bad for someone whose feet didn't hit the floor until almost noon.
Stop one was Lickinghole Creek Brewery for Bluegrass Sunday. This week's band was the Creekside Pickers - mandolin, dobro, guitar, banjo and upright bass -singing with the fields of hops behind them. There were plenty of people there to hear their classic pickin'...or drink beer, I don't know which.
You know which reason had me there.
Two of the music-lovers chose to sit down at the table where I was sitting and, as it turned out, had gone to high school with the dobro player.
Even better, she just happened to have the proof: her 1968 Huguenot High yearbook.
After she showed it to her former schoolmate and they showed it to the dobro player, assuring him that he looked just the same, I asked to borrow it to take in the faces, clothing and ads of 1968. It was some kind of classic.
Most of the boys had bangs swept to the side. Most of the girls had carefully arranged flips and pageboys. There were clubs such as Future Farmers of America, Future Teachers of America and - surely on its way out in '68 - Future Homemakers of America.
There was a school pep rally and lecture warning of the dangers of hallucinogenic drugs. There were a lot of American muscle cars in the school parking lot. And the cheerleaders' skirts came down to their knees.
Some of the best reading was in the back where the class of '68 had sold ads to local businesses, many of them in the Westover Hills and Forest Hills area.
But I spotted one for a car dealership on Broad Street two blocks from where I live, where a Rite-Aid now sits. So I was learning new things about my neighborhood while looking at a civilization that no longer exists.
Let me tell you, I was some kind of sorry when the yearbook's owner decided to leave and take my entertainment away.
Dinner was old school at the Cumberland Diner, a place that has a separate dining room for smokers (and advertises it on their sign) where I had a double cheeseburger, fries and a chocolate shake (made with the kind of milkshake maker my family had when I was young) and delivered in a metal cup with a long-handled spoon.
Probably a lot like they did in 1968 when those Huguenot High kids went on dates.
Monday dawned sunny and warmer, ideal for a drive to Lovingston to winery hop and procure apples from an orchard.
Arriving at Democracy Vineyards to find a handwritten note on the door saying everyone was harvesting in the fields, we turned around to go just as a voice called down from the vineyards that he was on his way.
The affable owner, clad in one-piece coveralls, drove his mule down from the Petit Manseng fields and welcomed us into the high-ceilinged tasting room decorated with original political posters from around the world and dating back to the 19th century.
My favorite was a WPA sign for a sewer project hanging in the loo.
He called himself and his wife "recovering lobbyists" and lamented the dangers of letting an architect friend design the soaring building complete with a colorful sign on the front.
"Cause nothing says 'farm winery' like an ostentatious back-lit, red, white and blue sign," he joked self-deprecatingly.
I was pleasantly surprised to find that they grow Pinotage, South Africa's signature grape, and one he'd fallen for while there, much as I had.
All the wines had patriotic names -Republic, Dawn's Light, Suffrage - and we tasted through them before taking glasses of Declaration 2013, a Chardonnay, Viognier and Petit Manseng blend, out to the porch overlooking the hills and fields to sip.
Then it was on to Drumheller's Orchard (established 1937) to get apples (Jonagolds) for cooking. My only regret was that it wasn't the weekend, so there were no hayrides and the apple sling shot wasn't in use.
Who wouldn't be curious about an apple slingshot?
A stop at Blue Ridge Pig for pig and beef barbecue sandwiches (in a rustic, log-style building with enough dusty brick-a-brack to outfit three restaurants) was better enjoyed outside on a sunny picnic table (near a stern sign warning "Absolutely NO alcohol!") next to a car wash where a man was sudsing his front end with his hands.
Cause, apparently, we don't need no stinkin' sponges in Lovingston.
Then it was time for the outbuildings tour. Headed down the gravel path to the bathroom, outside naturally, I came upon the smokehouse, a tiny wooden building with an enormous stone chimney that announced itself with the aroma of smoke as you approached it.
With that smell still on our hands, we wound through sunny back roads to King Family Winery to round out the trip.
A dozen other people were in the tasting room, more than I'd have expected late in the afternoon on a Monday. After tasting through the wines, we took a bottle of their sparkling (which they weren't even making last time I'd been there) out to a table overlooking the polo field to enjoy it as clouds rolled in over the mountains and the sky went from blue to dramatic.
After dinner at Tavern on the James in Scottsville - they were out of the appealingly-named clodhopper steak unfortunately - it was time to take it back to Saturday night.
That's right, sitting outside on the porch swing, the nearly full moon so bright that trees were casting dramatic shadows on the lawn, we tuned into Mr. Fine Wine so I could have another outstanding evening of his vintage soul music.
Just doesn't get much better than Downtown Soulville on a Monday night.
My quick trip had taken me full circle. Mercy!
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