Going back to last Thursday, our first full day in Georgia: Anne and Ned offered to take us to see the lookout point above Amicalola (not Multnomah, Marian, it’s that funky hearing, sorry) Falls and then a little further down, the entrance to the beginning of the Appalachian Trail.
Where we both said it had been on our life list to hike the entire Trail. Richard had done a goodly distance on it in his younger days but they would have to cure lupus before I could really get to it.
The stone arch marking the spot was behind the ranger station and gift shop. It had rows of benches to the side for people to rest on right after their very long hike, and on those benches was a group of people maybe twenty-five years younger than us. Tattoos, clothes you would definitely wear out in the woods for roughing it, big boned, strong in opinions and body, one would guess.
And here we were, Richard in his oxford shirt (I don’t think the man knows how to wear a plain tee, it’s always an oxford shirt. Preferably blue. Rebel that I am, I occasionally buy him something radical, like a green one) and I in my trademark longish full skirt to keep the sun at bay and so that I don’t hash things too badly when I take one of my frequent tumbles: could we scream city-slicker tourists any louder? Those men guffawed quietly when we walked up to the stone arch, took pictures, talked about the trail wistfully, briefly, and then turned and left without taking a single step past that arch. (I regret that. One step wouldn’t have killed me.)
They couldn’t have known that we were all trying to let us have the experience without my spending one moment longer in the sun than I absolutely had to. But they were right, it was pretty funny.
On the way home, Ned allowed as how we really needed us some lunch, given the three-hour round trip, and he pulled into a barbecue joint to show us a little local flavor here.
I have memories from age sixteen of discovering Brunswick Stew at a little barbecue joint in southern Florida and there it was on the menu. It wasn’t the same thing–everybody has their own recipe–but it definitely made its own memories for the next chef to live up to. The best food comes from the funkiest places.
And yes, this is what they smoked the pulled pork in that Anne ordered. You’ve found it. The smoking gun.
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