Friday, November 24, 2017

I Am the Pretty Thing That Ate the House

Beth, Terry, Old Dude, Ms. B.
Well, maybe not the whole house, but damn near. There was no shortage of Thanksgiving Day feasting at the House of Rainey—with a worthy Black Friday follow-up. Since Mum is no longer able, for the past few years, Kimberly and I have been responsible for preparing our Thanksgiving Day vittles, and this year we scrounged up some mighty good ones. Dead bird (big), dressing (lots), smashed taters (this means something!), corn (garmonbozia), green beans (greenie meanies), pumpkin pie (courtesy of Phred), wine, coffee... all making for some happy dining. For afters, there was napping for some and walkies for me. While there were, sadly, no nearby geocaches I hadn't already claimed, I hoofed it around Liberty Fair Mall hunting a passel of Munzees. I'm sure I walked off at least a couple of green beans. Not only that, later, Ms. B. and I took a long, after-dark walk around the old neighborhood, which was both healthy and reasonably bone-chilling.

Once back at Mum's, Kimberly and I settled in to watch I Am the Pretty Thing That Lives in the House, a Netflix-produced ghost story about a young hospice nurse (Ruth Wilson) assigned to care for a former horror author (Paula Prentiss) in an old New England mansion. It turned out creepy enough, though so sedate in its pacing I had to struggle to fend off tryptophan-induced narcolepsy. Somehow, I persevered. After the filum was over, we put on the first couple of episodes of Stranger Things, season 1, which revived me. I had recently watched the entire run, but Ms. B. had not, and it was actually a treat to return to the series.

This morning, Ms. B. and I began the day with breakfast at The Daily Grind (home of the regular Songwriter Showcase events in which I have participated) and then set out for Villa Appalaccia winery on the Blue Ridge Parkway, where we met Terry & Beth (who rate among our select number of friends who appear to show little or no interest in burying Ms. B. and me in remote, hidden graves) for an afternoon of adventures in the land of oenophilia. After conquering this particular venue, we moved on to Chateau Morrisette, a short distance down the Parkway, for dinner. I quite enjoyed a wonderfully prepared and presented plate of Osso Buco; Kimberly and Beth both tore into some deceased poultry; but sadly, Terry was not taken with his portion of beef (we think it might have come from a zombie cow). Happily, the restaurant did their best to make things right, and I hope we can soon make a return trip we will all enjoy.

On our arrival back in Greensboro, we discovered a whole neighborhood a mile or so up the road from home cordoned off by numerous police cars and yellow tape. Dunno what the show is, but I hope it's only playing over there.

I think the tryptophans are about to stage a coup. I sleep now. Go away.
Ms. Beth will take none of your guff.
The tasting room at Villa Appalaccia
A strange-looking albino in front of Mabry Mill on the Blue Ridge Parkway

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