Breakfast was no joke. They were right. We arrived Friday morning back at the house, pretty much completely recovered and I for one was absolutely ready to fully and completely enjoy the food without the sickening aftereffects of a hangover getting in the way.
I grabbed a plate and got in line, watching as airy biscuits were loaded with smooth sausage gravy, slices of crisp bacon and spoonfuls of fluffy scrambled eggs landed on plate after empty plate. I was instructed that it was standard practice and tradition to reserve one biscuit to be spread with butter and jam, just to balance out the savory flavors and saltiness of the meaty breakfast meats. (Little known fact: “country ham” is just code for “even saltier ham”). The sweet biscuit was almost a breakfast dessert, which I was grateful for after polishing off the remainder of the sodium-laden meal.
The Friday after Thanksgiving finally graced us with a little sunshine, so as the little kids were ushered off to go to a movie, the rest of us decided to go hang out at B.’s uncle’s farm and ride around on ATV’s and just be generally awesome. B.’s Uncle R. is a Renaissance man in every sense of the word. I mean, the man breeds Australian shepherd puppies, raises and slaughters his own pigs, and makes his own moonshine. Moonshine! I was instantly charmed. I’ve been known to be somewhat of a moonshine enthusiast, though when it comes to actually trying the stuff I generally pretend I’m getting sick and probably shouldn’t be sharing glasses with people but thanks anyway. B. and M.. clearly being braver men than I, sampled the blackberry flavor and assured me it was eminently delicious.
At one point, I found myself in the kitchen as Uncle R. whipped up a batch of margaritas. I found this beverage choice to be amusingly incongruous with my surroundings, and chuckled inwardly as B.’s uncles sipped pink blended drinks out of palm tree-shaped margarita glasses and gathered around the TV; grunting, watching football, and talking about what could be done to fix one of the broken-down ATVs. One of these things is not like the other.
Eventually, the ATV got fixed and off we went. I clung tightly to B.’s ribcage as we jostled our way across the rough terrain of the Kentuckian hills, following B.’s cousin closely over enormous logs and through dense thickets of trees.
“Watch out for the twigs, they’ll getcha right in the face!” B.’s cousin warned, and I decided it might just be best to bury my face in B.’s back until this ride was over, not wanting to risk a poked-out eye or a slashed face. It was actually a really beautiful day for this, and as we climbed up the hills behind Uncle R.’s house, I looked out across the landscape and marveled at the rolling fields and crooked little houses with smoke unfurling from their chimneys. It was like a postcard.
Our off roading adventure led us back to the house where we’d eaten breakfast that morning and dinner the night before. I had to get off the back of the vehicle so B. could urge the thing over a small creek and up a steep and muddy incline. “My work here is done!” I declared, dismounting the ATV, deciding things like this were better left to the menfolk to deal with. I then promptly got entangled in a bunch of thistles, from which it took me about ten minutes to extract myself. Serves me right, I guess.
The rest of the evening was spent grazing on leftovers and fiddling with the color on the TV, which somehow had become stuck on the greener end of the color spectrum. We then went back to the cousin’s house where I got solidly whooped in both Taboo and Cranium. I blame the pinot grigio.
The next morning we were to depart for our final stop: Louisville.
