Knee Deep in Fried Rabbit

In the spirit of Columbus, I went exploring today.

Driving out 64, the thrill of a day away devoted to pure fun was matched only by the thrill of seeing patches of blue sky in between clouds the further west we drove.

After nine days of gray and rain, it was liked heading toward the promised land.

A fueling stop was the initial order of business and pulling into Blue Mountain Brewery, a full parking lot was the first indicator that we hadn't gone far enough afield.

Inside, the place was crawling with families and children.

Toddlers shrieking, sullen pre-teens slumped at tables, babes in arms. It seemed so off, I asked our server about it.

"It's like it's take your kid to Blue Mountain day or something," he said wearily.

Honestly, who wants to day drink surrounded by children?

But it was a pit stop, so I ordered the A.M. fog burger (mushrooms, caramelized onions and swiss and named after the A.M. Fog Market barely a quarter of a mile down the road) and a glass of Cardinal Point Quattro, the better to deal with the nursery school that was the dining room.

Fortunately, the food came quickly, we wolfed it down and got the hell out of Dodge.

It wasn't my first time at Blue Mountain but if today's clientele was any indication, I'm not sure I need to go back since I'm not a beer drinker anyway.

From there we went to Cardinal Point winery, a place I've not only visited several times, but have also poured for twice at the annual Virginia wine expo.

There we found a much more civilized atmosphere, did a tasting that included the unique IPC hopped Chardonnay, the perfect wine for those who straddle the beer geek/wine geek line.

John, I'm looking at you.

I was taken with their 2012 Green, a Chardonnay and Petit Manseng blend, inspired by the Portuguese vino verdes I so enjoy, so we got what tasted like green apples in a glass and went outside to the patio to enjoy our glasses with a view of the vineyards, the weather station and ever-increasing blue skies.

One of the winery dogs strolled by nonchalantly with a dead squirrel in her mouth, not once, not twice, but three times, making sure we saw.

What's the point in killing it if you can't show it off?

Our next landing was uncharted territory, Flying Fox Vineyard, a place we hadn't even heard of.

Despite a lack of familiarity, we found an agreeable pourer, the sister of one of the owners, and a couple of men tasting next to us, one local and one from Tennessee.

It didn't take long for them to invite us to join their tent at a local upcoming oyster roast, that's how friendly they were.

After tasting through, we decided on glasses of the 2012 Rose, a lovely dry wine perfect for us to take to the yellow rocking chairs on the front porch and watch the endless parade of school buses turning off the main road.

We'd discovered some pretty agreeable territory, so much so that we lingered almost too long, pulling into Albemarle Ciderworks as the staff was heading to their cars to leave.

Oops. Their tasting room isn't open on Mondays, but they took pity on weary travelers and invited us inside for a tasting.

Our pourer had her sister with her because it was the girl's 21st birthday and they were going out to celebrate.

The newly legal one pulled from her pocket a list of the things she intended to drink tonight -margarita, old fashioned, mojito - to go with her determined attitude.

I can't imagine she's going to feel too well tomorrow, but you only turn 21 once.

For now, she watched as we drank. I got a kick out of tasting Jupiter's Legacy because the blend contained black twig apples, an heirloom variety I'd picked a few weeks ago but had never tasted in cider.

We finished with glasses of Old Virginia Winesap, tasting like a baked apple with a hint of lemon, a cider that would be terrific with a country ham sandwich from Adam's Country Store.

I do love my sweet and salty.

We asked the sisters for a dinner recommendation and the first thing one said was Whiskey Jar, a place I had also heard good things about.

So it was onward to the downtown mall where we found a busy restaurant with its front open to the mall and people in and out eating.

For a place that claims to source and make food that their great-grandmothers would recognize, I had to wonder if Great Grandma would approve of the sullen attitude our server gave us.

Probably not.

They were out of the fried quail appetizer we wanted, so we instead ordered a roasted beet salad with homemade farmer's cheese and fried onions and fried green tomatoes so salty even Grandma would look askance.

My grilled pork chops over house-baked beans would have been okay had I not had such magnificent heirloom pork chops a few weeks ago.

Unlike the marbling in those beauties, tonight's were lean and kind of dry.  I have been spoiled by Berkshire/Tamworth chops from Fred and Wilma's progeny.

After a quick stop at the Blue Light Grill, a place I hadn't been to since Chef Lee Gregory was cooking there, we made our way to our ultimate destination for the day: the Jefferson.

Tickets for tonight's Frightened Rabbit show had been procured back in July so I'd been anticipating hearing this Scottish band for months.

They wasted no time kicking into high gear and it was clear what stellar musicians they were from the first song.

"Last time we were here was four or five years ago," lead singer Scott said. "Then we were playing upstairs at a tapas bar."

The funny part was he pronounced it tap-ass, adding to the comedic value of an already-extremely thick Scottish accent.

That accent, like the song lyrics about life's difficult moments - being alone, drinking more than you should, being with the wrong person- are just part of the Scottish identity, ergo Frightened Rabbit's.

Or, as a friend misheard when I told her who I was going to see, Fried Rabbit.

For a misery-focused band, the songs really rocked and eventually I even saw a kid crowd-surfing, not the kind of thing I ever expected to see at this show.

But you never know what you're going to find when you go exploring and, Hornitos in hand, I was open to pretty much whatever happened.

We're talking about a band who writes gloriously melancholy lyrics like, "You're the shit and I'm knee-deep in it."

If that doesn't sum up life and love, you haven't headed out to explore the right places, my friend.

The Ripest Peach is the Highest One

I rounded up a peach posse today and headed west to an orchard at the foot of a mountain.

Of course my companions were restaurant people because who else would be off on a Monday?

I drew the short straw and had to play driver, but other than having to listen to other people's road trip CDs (Fleetwood Mac and INXS, wtf?), it was a pretty perfect day.

An hour and a half later, we pulled into Chiles Peach Orchard under a beautiful blue sky with puffy little clouds hanging over the mountaintop.

We had our choice of picked fruit or picking our own, but why drive all that way and not spend time in the orchards?

The trees were laden with picture-perfect fruit (and many pictures were taken by my cohorts) and the ground covered in peaches in various stages of decomposition.

We agreed that we were in no hurry (in fact, that became the mantra of the day) and took our time walking up and down rows of trees to admire them before picking a single peach.

Because I am allergic to peaches, I picked just enough to make peach ice cream and have a peach every other day for a week.

Let's hope it doesn't kill me.

I've been making peach ice cream every summer since I can remember, but this will be the first time with peaches I picked.

For the record, I expect great things.

After the others had gathered enough to suit them, we headed back to the orchard shop to have them weighed.

Part of our motivation in going had been that they also have a dairy shop with fresh peach milkshakes. Yes, we're that shallow.

The sign at the window said they were out of chocolate flavor today. My question would be, who cares?

And who would buy a small peach milkshake instead of a large?

None of us. We took ours out to the porch and sat under the pergola enjoying the richness of peaches and cream while admiring the mountain view.

We were debating whether or not to go pick another kind of peaches, the flat donut peaches, which tend to be even sweeter than the round varieties.

Why not? We weren't in any hurry.

So we wandered up the road to those trees and gathered donut peaches. One of my posse had never even had them before.

Back in the shop, we continued our peach bliss. I got peach cider donuts and one of us got a peach cider slushie.

At that point we knew we were losing our grip on reality and needed to escape the peach fumes before we also bought peach butter or peach pie.

Luckily, we weren't far from what Food Network Magazine had recently dubbed the best pizza in Virginia.

Crozet Pizza, a local mainstay for decades, was next on our agenda.

The unprepossessing building in an old strip center with no separation from the road was everything we hoped it would be.

It was small, dusty, and crowded with the detritus of 35 years in business; the server and pizza maker welcomed us as we walked in.

And they would know about everyone's arrival because a piece of rope is tied to the front door, strung across the ceiling and connected to a bell directly over the tiny kitchen.

I am such a fan of that kind of anti-technology. Even better, they take no plastic. These were my kind of people.

The place was tiny with a focus on one thing: pie. A sign hangs over the counter making that perfectly clear: "NO Pizza, NO Beer!"

But we did want pizza, so getting a Star Hill was not a problem. The hard part was sifting through the list of toppings.

We decided that the oddest were snow peas and peanuts, neither of which we wanted.

FNM had cited their white pizza with mushrooms on a perfectly chewy crust as the best of the best, but we weren't going to let them be the boss of us.

We got a large white (garlic, herbs, onion and olive oil) but with tomatoes and spinach instead of fungus.

It was an outstanding pizza in every way. We took our time with it, even taking breaks to admire the wall of photos of people in far-flung places wearing their red "Crozet Pizza" t-shirts.

The funniest one was the naked couple at a nudist camp, holding one XL t-shirt in front of their birthday suits. Judging by their hair styles, we guessed it was a late 70s gem.

It was clear from the stream of people coming in to pick up pies that this place has a devoted following and with good reason.

Naturally the restaurant types with me ended up talking to the pizza maker since he was so close to our booth and kitchen people love to commiserate with each other.

Leaving, my cohorts agreed that I'd made a terrific suggestion for eating post-picking.

Hey, I may not watch Food Network (okay, any TV), but it was a gamble that paid off. Anyway, I'd read it.

Our last stop was Blue Mountain Brewery, partly for the beer lover in our group and partly so we could sit outside and admire the view before nightfall.

I hadn't been in a couple of years and weather had prohibited an outdoor meal then.

Today, we found a table outside, shaded and facing the mountain, and settled in for some conversation and libations.

Blue Mountain's wine list is short (duh, they're a brewpub) with just a half dozen Virginia wines.

I chose today's special, the Flying Fox Rose, made with Cab Franc and Merlot in a traditional style and pleasantly refreshing on a hot evening.

Beer Geek opted to taste something he hadn't seen before, the Big D.I.P.A, a double IPA that billed itself as less bitter than many IPAs.

Wait, aren't IPAs known for their bitterness? It must have been plenty hoppy enough because he ended up ordering it.

And we ended up lingering, talking about everything and nothing, quaffing our Virginia bevvies as my car filled up with the heady scent of fresh-picked peaches.

On the drive home, my posse was already asking me to start planning another road trip for a future Monday off.

I'll just how to figure out how to top peaches, pizza and pink. Not to mention donuts, milkshakes and Big DIPAs.

Bet I can.

But I won't be driving and we will not be listening to music from the last century.

Planning must have its privileges.