A shallow bed of embers clings to life and the moon, like a great white finger reaches out across the lake. Ping pong balls and solo cups litter soft grass and we stumble, piss-drunk and sunburnt, up the hill toward the house. I mention something about pancakes in the morning to which I hear slurred from the darkness, “Dude. Hell yes. Jon already made reservations.” I’d had no idea. I just thought pancakes sounded awesome–somehow, we find our way to our beds.
When I awake, the sun screams through the blinds and my head hurts. I wonder why all eight of us on a bachelor party morning, post-all-day-lawn-drinking games, decided to go to a farm–for brunch. Who the hell thought this was a good idea? They better have mimosas.
We shake off the cobwebs of beer and bourbon, damn Jon for his insolence, and wind our way to a remote farm tucked away in the hills of old Appalachia. It consists of a small yellow house, a mangled silo and a wire chicken coop–a skeptical scene had it not been for the lot full of cars next to a weathered barn.
I nearly break the screen door as I open it and its hinges shriek with rust. We find ourselves in a back store room that, without the smell of bacon and fresh bread, would feel like trespassing. We follow our noses to the restaurant portion of the barn and it’s busier than expected: church folk dressed in their Sunday best chat away while passing jars of syrup and jam around tables as weathered as the barn. The clank of dishes betrays the tempo of a good eatery and to my amusement, I realize that we are wildly underdressed. However, our presence is politely noticed with a few smiles.
The all female staff look to be three different generations of the same family; and their faces show a wind swept pride. Jars of condiments are set precisely and each salt and pepper shaker is full, standing next to fresh stacks of napkins. Tables are cleaned and set quickly. The kitchen area is just out of view, tucked away behind wire racks of bread and goods and a pony wall–above which I can make out the eldest of the women, who bustles about cooking. This place was theirs–and I didn’t yet know how much of an impact it would have on me.
To be continued…
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Best regards.
D.G.
