On Thanksgiving Day I wrapped up warm and drove out to Bill and Jenn's house. I had decided against cooking at my house, it was too expensive to cater for a group of guests this year, and an e-mail from Bill saying they were cooking turkey stew in the fireplace of the abandoned house on their property sounded absolutely perfect. An urbexing turkey dinner, couldn't get cooler than that! I had been cooking an English style stuffing to take with me, but unfortunately, because I'd been on the phone while it was in the oven, time slipped by and the damn thing burned. So I loaded up with additional beers plus a bottle of dessert wine to make up for the lack of a dish and drove over.
I had assumed we'd be eating outside or in the old store so was totally unprepared to step into their house and find a beautiful long table set up with 11 places. Jenn's parents, whom I'd met a few times previously, and Jenn's old school friend plus her family were in the house when I arrived. It looked like I was the only straggler and my heart went out to them for inviting me. But I had to see what was going on in the old house, so grabbing a beer, and after a quick cuddle with Mr Snuggles, the geriatric feline, I scooted over to the derelict building.
Bill and Jenn's dad plus her friend's husband, (God forgive me, I spent an amazing day with these people, but I've forgotten all of their names), were bent over the fireplace. Two iron cauldrons of turkey soup were cooking, bubbling deliciously over the flames, making my mouth water at the fragrant aromas of meat and herbs.
I was very impressed with the cooking techniques used. Prosciutto was chopped and cooked in bacon fat on a lid with hot coals underneath while brussel sprouts and bacon sizzled in another cauldron. This would have pecans and maple syrup added, while the Prosciutto would be added to the top of homemade mac 'n' cheese. There were a lot of old recipes on the walls of the old building for hog feed and mash, dating back to 1931, and I was very grateful that our dinner was comprising of much more palatable ingredients.
My job was to lay the table and before long we were all seated and tucking into salad, turkey soup, turkey breast, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, stuffing, mac 'n' cheese, green beans, brussels and some superb fresh cranberry relishes. I tried everything, it was all outstanding. Wine was poured, and because I was enjoying myself so immensely, the meal swept by in a wave, including dessert, because all I mainly remember was the laughter. We talked and mostly laughed throughout the whole dinner. As I said my goodbyes late that evening, armed with a container of turkey soup for the next day, I remember my tummy and face were aching, not from eating too much, but from continuous laughing It had been a perfect evening.
Saturday was a bad day. I locked myself out of my house in the morning with just a thin sweatshirt on and had to wait over 90 minutes for the locksmith to arrive. My spirits lifted slightly when he admitted he was having a problem breaking into my house. Taking note that breaking inmy own house was obviously something I couldn't do in the future I ordered an outside lock box to lock a spare key in. Upon entering my house and warming up I then discovered my kitchen sink was blocked and despite various methods of supposed 'instant unblocking' the standing water refused to budge. Completely exasperated I left it, grabbed my camera and headed for the mountains, which thankfully are only a few minutes away.
I wasn't in the mood for hiking, especially as I still hadn't warmed up from being trapped outside. The park was closing early due to an ice storm coming in. The Skyline Drive has its own weather system, which although amazing, can be frightening if you're caught in the middle of it. There were few people up here and it was eerily quiet, apart from the winds blowing cold blasts across the roads and scenic outlooks. I took a few shots of the Blue Ridge Mountains and then headed back to my blocked sink.
I don't like failing at tasks so I wasn't in a good mood when I had to face the blocked sink yet again on Sunday morning. I finally had to admit the job was beyond me and resigned myself to shelling out another substantial wad of cash to get another person out to help me. I sat and watched a movie while mulling the dilemma over in the back of my mind, and when that proved ineffective I once more headed to the mountains. In less than 15 minutes I was driving high in the park, once again noting the absence of tourists. But today there were no vistas to be admired. The air was dank and cold, with a thick blanket of fog rolling through the trees, occasionally a small window opening up to allow a view of the valley below.
Then as I got higher the fog was joined with ice. The wet leaves on the ground were bright bronze, copper and chestnut, patches of green grass poking through.
It was cold up here but evidently still above freezing as the road was littered with piles of crushed ice that had fallen from trees. It crashed against my windshield like a spattering of bullets or as if someone had thrown a bucketful of ice directly at me, the impact loud and brittle, causing me to study my windshield closely each time it happened, fully expecting to see cracks. Every form of vegetation was coated in ice, like a wonderland, but today the ice was like curled up like ribbons on the branches, which I'd not seen before, swathes of curls suspended in the trees, hanging from rocks and weighing down the blades of grass. It was beautiful and I stopped often to take photos, or simply just stand and listen, relishing the icy desolation, damp, cold fingers of fog brushing against my cheeks.
Back in the car, after another mile or so, the elevation dropped and the temperature rose slightly, the icy suddenly absent from the world, so quickly that it seemed I'd been in another world. It was difficult to see a few feet ahead in the dense fog, it was a real pea souper, as we'd say in England. I was driving less than the speed limit, crawling along, which was fine since I was in no rush. The trees stretched across the road, their branches softened in the dense thickness, and appeared like huge cobwebs arching across the tarmac.
I left the park, waiting behind two cars at the junction, who seemed to behaving problems reading the signs across the road. The fog was still very thick and white, with visibility almost at none. As I zig zagged down the mountain the fog lifted, but looking back once I was in the valley, thick clouds still billowed over the mountain tops, occasional gaps in the white haze breaking open to reveal brief glimpses of a blue sky and the golden hues of a setting sun. I'd managed to forget the blasted sink for a while, but was now resigned to calling out the experts and parting with yet more money. C'est la vie...
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