The Life and Death of Mr. Henderson

Keith Henderson was my friend, and my mentor, and presented me with a life changing opportunity, and now he is dead.

Often times, you get more than a few shots at life.  However, many never realize when the opportunities knock, until they are gone.  Look at the developers of Facebook, Google, Yahoo, Microsoft, and Apple.  They all took chances and succeeded wildly.  However, one never hear about the individuals who failed, and most certainly you never hear about the individuals who never took the chance of a lifetime.  And though my small story is nothing of the aforementioned empires to the mass media of our world, it is an empire to me because someone took the opportunity to invite me to take a chance in life.

In 2005, Keith Henderson appeared.  Often times, like many it was at a very low point in my life.  I was a poor student, struggling to pass my studies in "Academia".  My self worth was at an all time low as I had decided to run ramshackle in full kamikaze style throughout the bureaucracy of my medical education.  That said, it made for rough paddling towards a career when I had created a name for myself as an outspoken young punk.

Keith turned it all around when he met me on my surgical rotation and said, "So, you want to learn about surgery...I don't expect anything from you, but here are a few questions you can look up tonight when you go home.  If you can give me the answers, then you can tag along.  If not, no loss for me, I really don't care."

I've always enjoyed a good challenge, and I have always liked someone doubting my ability.  The next day I found him and gave him the answers to his "Medical Questions of the Day".     He said, "Huh, so you want to learn, okay, well, no expectations here, this is what you make of it, don't waste my time, and I certainly wont waste yours".

Keith was by all descriptions bigger than life, and as we started to work together my silly cartoon mentality couldn't help but giggle at the entourage we appeared as when rounding on patients.  He was at least 6'6" and about 250lbs, and he looked like a big brown bear.  Standing side by side we were the mixed race equivalent to the movie poster from "Twins".  He was Arnold Schwarzenegger, and I was Danny DeVito.  Somehow, we just clicked.  We were both hams in front of crowds and he let me be me.  We fed off of each other's energy and quit wits.  It was comical indeed to see us roll into a patient's room and start riffing off of each other, telling jokes all the while doing actual medical work.

He had the ability to put patients at ease with jokes, humility, and an ability to morph as a chameleon to tell the patient what they needed to hear in their own language while never masking the truth.  I remember one of the patients saying, "Look, it's Frick and Frack" when we walked in and started our "Who's On First Routine".  I ate it up, and I think he did too.

A few months later I ran into him and he presented me with the opportunity of a lifetime.   He said, "Hey, you got any more slots left in your elective rotations?  I'm about to become the Chief of the Neurosurgical service down in Washington, DC.  You should come down, if you like it, I'll hire you.  I know you are looking for a job, and you have expressed interest in everything(Smart students catch on and say they like all fields by the way).  But this field is YOU.  If you don't like it, you can move on".

After taking his advice and taking a chance to work in the complicated and intimidating world he spoke of he started teaching me how to read MRI and CT scans and said, "See, it's easy, it's just Neurosurgery".  We would see tough and challenging cases, tell families their family member was sick and going to die or perhaps never ever be the same person again.  But the ease in which he could convey these things imprinted on me.  Beyond words I just knew I was embarking on something special...blind faith I guess.

Six years later I now sit as the new Chief of the same service he invited me to work for.  As the comic tragedy of life would have it, he succumbed to brain cancer, experiencing at first hand the news he used to deliver so effortlessly to the patients he cared for.  And as I sit writing this at a loss, I cannot be all that sad as I am all the more enriched by what he presented to me, an opportunity of a lifetime.  As I have grown into a man, I am certain he existed at that moment as one of life's holy angels to change my life forever.  He was the pusher of the pendulum  to move forward beyond challenges and mistakes into new uncharted territory.

On the week he died, I shared my sadness with my dad.  And he said, "Time to move on, and take over doing what he did."  I feel like the runner of the next leg of life's race, taking the forward progress already made and now making it my own.  I will forever be in his debt, and will always remember the legacy he carried to believe in others, the power of life, the human spirit, and most importantly me. 

The Magic of Egg Drop Soup

While we are on the tangent of comfort food, let's give a shout out to Egg Drop Soup. Not sure how you make it, and I generally feel it's the healthiest American-Chinese food you can have from take out...if it's not healthy I don't give a shit to know that thank you.

Adding the extra crunchies for texture really doesn't add to the caloric value, and the salt helps bloat and later purge the impurities from your diet right? As a child, another staple for my wife was egg drop soup and pork fried rice when she was feeling sick. Being that both of us were feeling quite rough a few days ago, this hit the spot, salting us up like cured fatback, and bloating our bellies for early sweet dreams and restful recovery.

When I was sick I had cheetos, that was my staple. But I don't see anything wrong with a little Egg Drop Soup.

Hot Dog Mac And Cheese, And A Partial Letter To My Unborn Demon Spawn

Mac and Cheese is the friend who is always there. She can be dressed up with truffles and seven cheeses, or she can just look fine in sweatpants and an over sized t-shirt by coming out of the box, and following the powdered cheese directions. The foreign concept to me however was adding hot dogs to the arsenal of comfort. My wife introduced me to this concept some months ago and wondered how I even turned out a right person in the world for never hearing of this marvelous mash up.

Understand it's good to go vegetarian, vegan, and organic, it's also essential to come correct and be a bad boy with nitrates, preservatives, powdered cheese, and enough salt to melt an icy sidewalk after a winter storm. What makes my brain piece so wonderfully comforted and sedated when I eat this warm, cheesy, salty, gooey snack I'm just not sure. But it's food porn on the highest level of the girl next door concept that just got hot overnight, but is sitting around in a sweatsuit with no underwear. Honest to goodness while you do it you feel so happy with the world being a perfect place. Post coital food consumption you drift off to sleep feeling warm and satisfied, briefly waking only to rip off some of the loudest farts that somehow accentuate how clever you were to combine these two lovely food groups. Meat in tube form and boxed macaroni, how clever, I get horny in a hungry way every time I think of it.

"How were you never introduced to this food group?" My wife asked, "I was practically raised on it." Indeed young unborn spawn of Matty J, I envision we will soon have a bowl together while watching baby Einstein or the Wiggles...let's just hope beer will still be around to provide comfort to the foreseeable pain of infant-toddler tv...maybe just maybe, we can sneak in a few episodes of kung fu.

Punks Backyard Grill

The nadir in recent posts has been mitigated by a lack of motivation. I exist in part to eat and review food. To cook and be merry as well as live the life you want to live. However, fine dining be damned, and good food be good...it's tough to write in ten different ways, "It was so yummy, I was full, we drank good wine."

That is a non-sequitor segue way to the following review of "Punk's Backyard Grill" in Annapolis.

Nestled in between large market stores such as "Crate and Barrel" and the like, this place defies natural mall standards. It goes without saying I despise the mall, most of the employees, and most of the patrons. Cookie cutter America with unemployed young twenty-something patrons purposefully spending more money they don't have...I digress

Every time I tell someone about this gem I get the following sentiment, "I hate the mall, food courts suck, I don't want to have to walk through the mall to get there..."

The good news is that Punk's is only physically built on to the mall. No doors lead into the infectious retail splooge that is "The Mall". The better news, the owner is a beer nerd, brewer, and proprietor of the fresh, local, green movement. Better yet, the customers don't seem to be the same mouth breathing slack jawed yokels from the mall.

Food is made to order, and again, the beer list is extraordinarily good, and cheap. They even offer a happy hour most days placing some of the best beers in America in your hands for 3 dollars a pint. Live in the tri-state area and ever heard of premium craft brew for 3 dollars a pint? Me neither, at least not much. This winter, they somehow got their little hands on Dogfish 120 IPA...a whole keg...THAT is perhaps the pinnacle of IPA's. Hands down, this place serves the BEST craft brew menu in Annapolis. They even have beer dinners educating the consumer on pairing beer with food...hell, they even do cool cocktails and cocktail dinners.

The decor is refreshingly outdoorsy. Picture a cabana bar with palm trees and sky lights simulating the great outdoors. Are you sold yet? How about a well seasoned charred lamb burger with killer tzatziki sauce, or grilled smoked kielbasa on fresh pita? Don't trust me, check the menu, the pictures, the philosophy, the mission statement...I'm all in.

http://www.punksbackyardgrill.com/

The Art of Receiving

I'm a giver, was always taught to share, and when I'm down to my last favorite potato chip, I'll gladly give it away to my wife. It's the pleasure giving evokes when you really love something, and you give it it away because the happiness of that said party makes you happier.

Giving makes the world a better place and perhaps is quite the curse because once you start, it's vicious to pull back and take a rest. And when you are good at it, well, that snowball can become an avalanche.

Generally my wife and I always for others, host parties, or cook for each other. We find things simply taste better when we do it...it's the curse of the self proficient and self important persona.

Enter last night as the most recent stint of getting spoiled as my wife and I sat at JP and Melly Mel's kitchen bar imbibing drink after drink, and we watched them cook us dinner. With each laborious luscious sip of a great Cotes du Rhone, the night slowed to a standstill where we were frozen in time while the busy whirring of kitchen appliances and chopping of mise en place progressed.

I kept thinking to myself with my wife connecting with me in step..."Boy, the food tastes different, and even sometimes better in a different way than when we cook. This sure is nice being spoiled...no cooking, no cleanup, and there is even a handsome man taking our empty glasses and filling them with a joyous liquid making me somehow forget my troubles as well as reservations and inhibations" (let's not forget Meg had craftily placed herself smack next to the decanter).

Although it is an art to give, and many ways a means to a way towards self recognition, self confidence, and improvement...it is also an art to learn to receive. To stop and say, "Hell yeah, I'll drink your booze, make tons of wonderfully inappropriate comments, and bust out in song and boozy tearful hug to tell you how much I love you"...is the balancing yin to the yang of life. The proverbial salt to the pepper, or perhaps gin to the tonic.

As life is the semblance of balance between gluttony and restraint, it's the small things such as wonderful friends cooking you dinner that helps you get the total perfect picture...helping conform the thousand photo snapshots into a montage that emulates beauty.

The Enjoyment of a Simple Cigar

Overworked, a little hung over, over-tired, and under exercised I begin this span in an emotional mood. As a recovering dweller on all things negative I constantly avoid dwelling on sad things. Simply put, I'm a weepy little chimp. Before I met my wife, I would fucking cry and mope about everything. She diagnosed it as poor coping skills and I agree. So it's funny that I'm sitting here getting a little wistful and thinking about my Grandfather Gunnar.

It all started with being a little bored, and then I started looking at his old pictures, read my blog about his passing and shed a tear. But the moment didn't really carry on like it used to. Instead, I started thinking about the cigars he smoked, and how it's a terrible vice, but something splendid all in the same puff.

Grandpa loved his cigars. It was his icon, his brand. Wherever Gunnar was, there was at least remnants of an old stub hidden in the bushes waiting for one last puff. My dad joked that he would be an expert marijuana smoker if he ever partook because that guy could smoke that shit down to the last leaf...no doubt.

What got me really on a tear was this story sent from a long lost cousin in Sweden:

"My name is Sanna Greneby,I happened to find this post on Google when i searched "Gunnar deDon". First of all, im sorry about your loss. I am, as you, sure that there is one more entertainer up in heaven and that he is on à better place. My grandmother is Gunborg Bodin, born Gunborg deDon, sister to Gunnar. Even though he is my mothers (Monna) uncle, i grew up knowing him as "farbror Gunnar" (uncle Gunnar). I and My family went to Florida when I was 9 years old and he took us around everywhere and i do remember how fond he was of his cigars. In Disney world we went to one of the attractions and he hid his cigar (the 1/4 that was left of it) in a bush. When we had continued walking for 30 minutes after he suddenly realized he forgot his cigar in the bush and made us all wait for nearly an hour because he had to run back to the bush and collect it! He wouldn't let it go to waste. My father filmed a lot during this holiday and I have a clip when he is sitting by the pool telling stories (in Swedish) and playing the guitar. I can organize some clips to send to you if you would like? He was a great man who I am sure made a great impression on everyone he met."

As grandpa got older and his memory got a little more shoddy, placing cigars in random places became a humorous and laborious game...the funny thing is, my cousin writes this when my grandfather was sharp....it's funny how shit doesn't change.

The absolute convoluted point to this whole "Delve into all things Matty" is this. A beautiful cigar is the perfect pause to a busy day. It causes reflection, and the nicotine pulses on your synapses making them fire, and helping you sort shit out. For Grandpa, as a one manned band, the cigar was his confidant that never did him wrong. He is who I channel every time I light up, knowing I'll probably die much younger from esophageal or throat cancer...heaven forbid. More painstakingly the point is this...

Having something, whether it be a vice, or something simple like a cup of tea, new recipe, crowd to cook for, or a blank canvas for painting gives pause and is perhaps what we all need in order to sort out our busy complicated lives. Perhaps then is when your coping skills get the boost they need and you grow up before your very own eyes.

Meat is Murder, Tasty Muthereffin Murder...

The benefit to living in any place for a set amount of time is getting to know the small business owners. Alas, our love affair with Mike began. And we'll just call him "Mike the Butcher".

Plain and simply he is a butcher. But to us, he is a religious icon who has more palpable influence on me than Jesus. And if Jesus were here today, I would probably meet him at "My Butcher and More" in order to pick up some well aged pork, sausage, foie gras, rendered duck fat, and beef marrow bones...all scrupulously picked and dry aged appropriately in the back room. I would then share my home-brew and pop a few bottles of Jesus's water to wine and discuss global marketing for his talents (We might later puff cigars and discuss inventing new iPhone apps...).

My digression is the result of multiple synapses humming and thinking about this local meat shop. It is the promised land people should fight over....forget Israel and Gaza....just go to Annapolis.

My selling point is simple. Many often rant that meat is murder, the cause for cancer, poverty, rashes, and whatever ailment du jour. And your point I will agree if you are talking about all that shit from Industrial Buildings where animals are simply blobs of meat much like the contestants on "Biggest Loser"...an animal depraved of actually being an animal is a sad and cancerous bane on our diet. To eat industry meat? I would happily go vegetarian. But to get your fat fingers on what God intended? Well, that's why Jesus and I would be hanging out. Forget the end of the world...maybe he's just returning cause he's hungry...

Digressing again...meat sweats...sweet sweet meat sweats. Check this place out...they have everything...and they even have meat butchering and prepping classes...

http://www.mybutcherandmore.com/

Kids...

Kids scare the living shit out of me. It's not the kids themselves, but it's the prospect of actually having one, raising it, and somehow having something horrible happen along the way. Am I fit to be a father? Why yes, yes I am. Have I uttered verbally terrible statements about how I hate children and pregnant mothers like venom? Guilty on all accounts.

People's perspective is a great hideout for what you truly are. If more people think I would be a horrible father secondary to pithy statements pasted on Facebook about how I hate baby bumps, mother support groups, and snot nosed parasite kids sucking the potential lifeblood out of my retirement...then that is my intentional evil master plan. Lowered expectations set you out of less easy failure, any roob can see that.

The problem however is when your wife starts to believe the hype and questions your ability and desire to start, raise, and nurture a family.

Look, here is what I hate about kids...it's the obnoxious overbearing judgemental parents. It's the same attitude I hate about people in general. Oversensitive, overly politically correct, and hipocritical folks who only do good so they can stare down their noses at anyone they deem worthy. "Oh, you didn't use the (insert word here) method for parenting?....hmmmmm, Oh, you didn't get the "Specialist" for their sleeping habits and thumb sucking?" Yeah, what the fuck.

When you temper my beef against people with no problems who invent problems just to seem interesting along with my fear of raising a child and fucking it up somehow, you have me, on a window ledge, ready to jump.

The problem however is that I really like kids. For Christ sake, beneath the heavy swearing and innapropriate humor I really like children. I used to teach and guide young minds rather skillfully. I also work in medicine, reassuring people who are dying of horrible diseases. Inside I die almost 5 times a day seeing the shit I see in the hospital. Alas, my fear of seeing it happen to my family somehow makes me shudder.

My solace however is in my wife, and hearing her lament that maybe I just wouldn't be a good dad helped me see that it's time to move on and take that leap we took on our wedding day. It's the proverbial and predictable leap into thin air where anything good or bad can happen. What made me take that leap is that I got to hold her hand. My wife, the smarter version of the Jacobs, who married some blowhard boob who dabbles in blog writing, cooking, and trying to be a better person.

I've not shared outwardly how much I have reveled in holding our friends's new babies (while also holding a beer and letting a horse sniff her...long story), or practicing football holds on the baby while also drinking a beer. How I loved changing diapers, and running around with the baby in the car carrier (also after a few beers). I can't wait to actually emulate my dad who is still my hero and best friend. If only I too could be that lucky to leave an everlasting positive imprint on my child, much like he did me.

And that's where it leaves me. Yes, kids are the suckers of money lifeblood retirement homes. And they can be trouble, and sometimes one can fail in raising them. And most terribly they can die before you do...I think that's my nightmare, my aversion, and my true fear. But what they bring while they bring it makes the life cycle better. And with a woman you married due to her hotness and her smartness who now holds the friend's baby and you say, "Damn, she would be a great mom"...just makes me press forward...perhaps to push through the phobia and enjoy this great experiment of life.

My Tribute To Gunnar

I struggle to come to terms with his death. Unlike thinking someone was going to live forever, I pretty much was at peace that my grandfather had passed his golden years and was progressing towards a peaceful sunset. With dementia and stomach cancer ravaging his mind and body, the old man still went on his daily walks, ate his forever treasured Swedish food, and stacked the wood stove full every morning at my great Aunt's farmhouse in Vigaker, Sweden. He was far cry from the juggernaut and pillar of human strength he once was, yet his lucid spells made you wince with agony I hear. Just when you were ready to say goodbye and write the old man off, he'd poke back in for one more round, one more story. As if saying, "I'm still here, lucky as hell, and I'm not sure what I did to deserve it."

The old man mirrored the long in the tooth retired champion horse, his barn filled with old medals. Not the participation medals, but the ones that weigh a few pounds, no longer attached to their ribbons as their weight and purity outlived the fragile ribbon. When shined they look new, but their tarnish remains, somehow adding to their legend.

In his latter years I always pictured him out to pasture, happy to have his belly rubbed, his ears scratched, a good meal, and happy for a saunter with his iconic cigar. Old, yet proud and triumphant at all of his accomplishments. He was the retired stud, and though his eyes grew grey and cloudy, they remained sharp, and that impish youth still shone it's innocent twinkle until death.

Gunnar deDon is the inspiration to my life. Born above the Artic Circle in Kramfors, Sweden, he transcended poverty. His father died of Tuberculosis when he was a child, and thusly he was seen by many as a bastard child. His formal education was in carpentry, let's just ballpark it equilvalent to finishing 8th grade.

He, like so many of his generation did what was morally and ethically necessary to succeed. And through luck and fortitude he immigrated from Sweden to Canada, and from Canada to Florida only to live the impossible and improbable dream of a life and death done on his own, yet only to be helped by so many along the way.

He was and will forever remain handsome and resolute. He was a Maverick and innovator, and the first to teach me what the word meant. At ten years old, I spent my first week away from home with the Grandparents and I was bored out of my mind. My BMX Bicycle could only take me so far, and away from cable, forced to play outside, I rode that sucker till the chain fell off. Unable to fix it on my own, he showed me how and said, "Boy, you know, you need to be innovative, do you know what innovate means?" In hindsight and maybe at the same lock step in time, I knew that standing before me was the definition.

Father of four, having no idea how to build pools, or houses, he started as a jeweler and ended up helping to set the crown jewels for the queen of England when she visited Canada. Then, by happenstance the first house he built with his wife, some passer by liked it, so he sold it to them. So why not build more, make a profit, and take his craft down to Fort Lauderdale. Why don't you start developing neighborhoods, building pools, start a pool company, and later buy and develop a community in Cashiers, North Carolina. That community in Cashiers is where our mountain house sits. Oh yeah, he developed the ~40 acres by himself, known as "The One Manned Band". Our family mountain house sits there today, finished as he turned 70.

There was not much he touched that didn't end up shining. Roughly, he could step into shit, and come out smelling like roses.

In his older years he used to say, "You know, I don't know what I have done to be this damn lucky?" And after hearing his stories about surviving a solo plane ride/stall out/crash where he jumped out of it and landed in Lake Ontario unconscious, starting brush fires that got a little out of control during droughts, and the countless adventures he had with his adopted brother, you had to scratch your head and just shrug your shoulders in reply.

Was it destiny? God always protects drunks and fools. Neither a drunk nor fool, the man had Teflon protection right up until the day he died. Anyone who met him could agree there was just something special about the man. To put it the way I can see it, Gunnar deDon had a plan, he wasn't sure what it was, but when he figured it out, it always ended up working. Call him the forever bumbler, call him God's court jester who entertained the hell out of him until the day he passed with a sweet smile on his face. I can see God looking down, smiling for 87 years saying, "This one, he's special, he makes me laugh, his heart is pure"...and on November 5th, my lovely family in Sweden gathered around his bed singing old songs and telling old stories as he finally slept that final sleep...smiling, happy to go home. God has a another entertainer finally in his court. And if God is anything like me, he could hear those stories for an eternity, knowing they will never get old, perhaps just a little more embellished.

Henlopen City Oyster House/Salt Air and Why Bar Seats Are Better

Our good friend and part time chef/cook Michael Mooreland (known on past episdodes of "Michael Does Tapas") directed us to the Henlopen City Oyster House. Experienced to a good time with shellfish and happy hour drinks we hapilly accepted the challenge and rousted our butts for another adventure.

Happy hour starts at 3pm, can that be wrong? The Red Sox playing and beating the Yankees soundly while I slurped a variety of oysters next to the 5 women in the catty entourage of our party? The fact the smallish bar was jammed to standing room only and we nailed six seats within 5 minutes?

I am a believer that no matter how good the food, the ambiance makes or breaks a place. The bar room to the wonderful establishment is clean, bright, and is a shade of beige beachy brightness with weathered beach house planks comprising the walls. It's a place that feels high end and clean, but the cleanliness of the place drives it to that bright uplifting raw bar that instantly becomes a local "Cheers" joint.

Next door, Salt Air. Is it true we visited these establishments more than once? How else could we have known we could easilly water ourselves at the Raw Bar, take a break, and hit the happy hour next door? We will blame it on the bartender...

Habitually we tend to sit at the bar of any establishment. Call it my perpetual nature to kill a pint in less than five minutes, we like the availability of the savvy bartender. It's an upside. There is no awkward introduction from the waitstaff, or awkward waiting time. More importantly, there is not a long wait between drinks. Most importantly however, I feel we get the lay of the land in a new place. Hot spots, places to eat, places to go, things to do. The cadence of the talk is abrubt but generally warm with a New Yorker type attitude of pragmatism. And I dig pragmatic. I don't want to hear your fucking life story at least not for a few more pints...but I like to interact with you on a level that works for both.

At Salt Air, we hit the farm style table high top. Following suit that house made and homemade is the vogue rather than "Store Bought Chic" in the 1980s, we dove into tapas.

Paprika Grilled Wings

Watermelon, Pistachio, Mint, Tomato Salad

Mustard Cream and Country Ham Mussels (Warm bread for Sopping)

Tomato Salad with FRESH Bluecrab Dip

Roasted Beets with Goat Cheese

Scrupulously at each station of happy hour stoppage, our needs were attended, smiled upon, and quickly moved on as to say, "Welcome, thanks for coming, happy to have you, gotta roll". It's like many of our interactions in life. While we navigate with our small cadre of closests, we nimbly go the back and forth between our acquaintances. Bar seats, are the happy acquaintances in our busy life and are the reasons we dine and discriminate accordingly.

The Ode To Tracey and Backstory To Rehobeth

I live a Rock Star life because my wife, and her mother are connected with friends. And these friends have stuff. And thankfully these friends have decided to keep me in the fold. When I tell the stories of the galavanting and charmed adventures, my parents forget I actually work for a living. I'm telling you, it's all in who you know. Enter Tracey Brebner, colleague and mutual friend, and lover of food, travel, and fun. The friend you want your wife to have because she is a strong woman who is unfazed by my penchant for flatulence, and off centered comments. It all means I too get to tag along, I get to be one of "The Girls". And the place where all of this happens is at her house in Rehobeth.

Tracey's house is HUGE...located two blocks off of the beach, it has been in her family for umpteen years. It's a special place because it is a) Huge b) Has a huge fenced in yard(our dogs love to play there) c) She still lets idiots like me visit d) Her family has adopted us as their family as well.

Last year, during the winter, this 1890s home was flooded immensely by leaky radiators. Thusly, it was gutted and quite an adventure to stay in through the summer in which we had nothing but beds and a few walls amongst a ton of rafters. To see the house transform itself back into a modern working beach home has been hardly describable. Albeit, I'd have to say staying there has been much more comfortable now that there is a huge leather man chair with a great flat screen tv and ESPN. As a side note, Matty generally is "one of the girls" whenever we visit. Seriously, it's usually 5:1 girl to guy ratio...the new addition has helped my cause immensely. No longer feeling boxed in by girly girl drinks and manicures, I'm able to open a few beers in the solitude of the leather couch and shut off the world.

Adventure is the name of the game with every visit. Paddle boarding on the Delaware Bay, bumming beers from people moored on boats, raw bar happy hour, and even the tromps in the bushes after a few too many, my hat goes off to a great friend from a benefactor of such a rad place.

Redeem Yourself Rehobeth

Face down in the bushes, expelling the last of the poison, narrowly missing being arrested for trying to sleep in parked cars, I vowed to change. The hangover hurt so much. The wife frowned, laughingly I must admit, but embarrassed by her lush husband. The details we all tried to sort out...where did it all go wrong? Why did it get so blurry? Was it the fact we imbibed a shit ton of liquor while eating a steady heap of happy hour shellfish?

And there I was again, left by my wing man at midnight, my wife roused herself out of bed to find me barely conscious at the bar, some old lady hitting on me, and me completely unaware of anything.

That was Rehobeth. Guests of our friend Tracey, to her family beach house, those were some painful memories that no longer are excusable or "funny" at thirty two years old. July 3rd, 2011 was when my wife and I had our talk of how Matthew Jacobs can be a better human, and more importantly husband. That was when I decided wine and beer are fine for me, but liquor is the source of every silly story that ends up with me being an idiot. At thirty two, I'm afraid being an idiot could one day prove fatal. My column of self worth along with my vitality are too much at stake, thusly I have decided to change.

Visiting painful memories and reliving the bad times is something a Hedonist hates to do. And instead of this being a diary of psychobabble and self help for me, and pain for you, I feel it best to move on...

Inspired by my wife, and best friend of almost seven years, I decided to not dwell on my failures, and get back on the horse. Last week, shockingly, our dear friend Tracey emphatically invited us back to her place of solace. I wrote her a long email apologizing for my past behavior of one too many drinks and dives into the bushes. Unfazed she quickly replied, "I don't care how drunk you get, it's your hangover in the morning"...well said and I nice segue way to the roads of redemption.

For a week we tackled Rehobeth with gusto and vigor. If given the grace to change and make happier memories, this hedonist begs you to take full advantage. And heavens to betsy, it's not like I went to church and got up every day at 5am. Hell to the no! Instead, for an instance in my life I actually practiced self control while enjoying the shit out of our trip. No dives in the bushes, plenty of beer, daily cigars, and no blackouts...

Quite a sober entry that begs the question, where did you go, where did you eat, what did you actually do?

That my friends is the next adventure.

Ken's Back Porch Cafe

Bottom line is you have to go. As "Annapolitans" I am ashamed to write we finally went. The experience was expected...informal atmosphere overlooking Back Creek, comfortable staff, on a back porch with ceiling fans blowing...giving way to the star.

Food, bottom line the food was the star. "Best Crab Cake In Annapolis", yes, I would have to say so. On special however was the stuffed back fin soft shelled crab sandwich". Sauteed to perfection, crispy, tender, buttery...paired with a cup of coffee that had nuts to it and a virgin Bloody Mary we collapsed in our king sized bed and dreamt of crabs jumping into a steam pot filled with Natty Boh and Old Bay.

The Crab Cake took the back seat to the special of the day. Relaxed, not pretentious, kind of a Cheersy no fuss it is what it is type place. By the way, it's also B.Y.O.B...note to self, next time at 10:30am, I'm gonna have to have a brown paper bag with something...yep, with something...

Tapas

I love that anytime you tell someone not in the "know" about a "Tapas" restaurant they automatically say, "Topless Restaurant"? I giggle...and with the globalization of everything less and less people have this reaction.

Small plates...or as far as I am concerned, snacks with drinks. Done well, Tapas are the perfect bar snack as you plow through different wines. If the portions are correct, you can imbibe with little consequence. Done poorly, you drank more than you ate. Call the cab, don't rochambeau it, trust me.

Our latest tapas experience was with the wonderfully talented Michael Mooreland. By day he plays around as the C.F.O. of some muckity muck company. By night and by fun, he cooks, drinks, and enjoys the finer things...fox hunting, traveling...he's a man after my own heart, a fellow brother in the renaissance of what life's meaning truly is.

We had the pleasure of winning a night with Michael and his partner Michael at their residence in Shepherdstown, West Virginia. Fashionably late we arrived at the door greeted by their sweet foxhound Kennedy. Michael was dressed in his chef's whites and invited us to sit along the kitchen island. It was a big beautiful kitchen, airy, spacious, yet well decorated and homey. Nothing was too big, your comrades were well within sharing distance and the wine bottles easily could exchange hands without getting up and walking across the table.

Michael introduced his aim that he planned tapas for two reasons. Reason number one, my mother-in-law requested it. More importantly, reason two, it was intimate, fun, and interactive. The mise en place was done thank goodness. Basically, at his request, we too got to put on aprons and fold little dish towels at our waist, and stuff empanadas, jalepenos, or portabello mushrooms (Meghan kept her apron on and ate, I think she was happy just to wear an apron and be involved).

The evening started with cold succulent sherry, toasted and well seasoned marcona almonds with Manchego and another Cow's Milk cheese. It again progressed while our glasses kept being filled and we digressed. Items on the menu were simple things like:

Carmelized Onion Biscuits

Bacon, Cream Cheese, and Onion Stuffed Jalepeno Poppers

Gambas al Ajillo (Shrimp with Garlic and Paprika)

Stuff Portabello Mushrooms with Onions and Chorizo

Scallop Ceviche

Langostinos

Roasted Pepper and White Bean Dip

The list probably goes on...and it was done amazingly as bottle after bottle of easy drinking Spanish wine evaporated into the recycle bin. We tried a really great 10 dollar Verdejo and an equally wallet friendly Rose made from Garnacha.

Sweet Kennedy sensing our jubilent mood went from lap to lap as his height was perfect for laying his sweet head on your trousers, looked up, and hoped for a bite. Michael and Michael joined in the fun and we all ate and imbibed with a relaxed sense that recapitulates why it is why I write about food. It's the people, it's the story, it's the enjoyment. Tonight, tapas were done right.

When I Found Time to Write...

I hunger to write, and I hunger to eat. As a self proclaimed artist who enjoys the finer things in life I find if I get out of a habit, I tend to fall off completely. It's my all or nothing soul constantly embattled by excess while trying to stay within the lines. It's a bless, a curse, and I often find myself the maker of my own disaster...again, the dumbest smart kid I know.

I find myself wondering what new food and experience to write about. Especially when I find them so meaningful. Perhaps the meaning of food has reached its point in my life. Instead of taking it for granted, I find myself savouring each bite much like I find myself fantasizing to always enjoy life. And as happenstance, my readers have fallen as innocent bystanders saying, "What the fuck happened to your writing...go drum up some business and get in the kitchen"...

I sit, finally, finger to keyboard, and my thoughts immediately fall on my last few really nice experiences with food:

Crab, Crab, and More Crab

My dad loves to poke fun at us Marylanders and our affinity for crabs. He tolerates crabs and actually enjoys picking them. My mother on the other hand could care less. She has no desire to pick, and when/if you are generous enough to give that jeweled backfin, picked in all of it's glory...standing out like a beautiful crab lollipop, she feigns little interest, dips it in butter and says, "Thanks"...

Dad gets a couple of beers in him and says, "I'm happy as a crab in Maryland". After a few beers myself, I get all weepy and think about the meaning of picking crab, the social collateral you have just gained with your hardy party of picking persona. Crab is a religion. It's a right of passage and a cultural phenomenon. It's where battles are sorted and relationships galvanized. The fun of it, you start chugging beers with each delicious dip and slurp of buttery sweet crab. In fact, you're drinking at a rate that will damn near make you pass out if you keep it up. And then your brain says, "I'm sated"...and your hands keep working each crab, extracting everything the little bug has to offer. The beer stays the same height in the bottle, and it starts to warm. Usually it's beer number three for me...or two and a half...and the beer has smudges of butter and Old Bay all over it, the label has started to peel from the condensation.

This summer has been no exception to crab picking madness. The people have changed, but the experiences remained the same. We last picked a few weekends ago at a beautiful spot in Sheperdstown, West Virginia. Picturesque, private ranch on a mountain right next to their pool. It was a friend of the mother-in-law (I swear she knows everyone). We sat in 98 degree heat under a flimsy umbrella and banged our mallets on a spare table held together with duck tape...crabs brought in by us from Annapolis.

And there we were, three beers deep, the remnants warming in the bottle, hands pickled by Old Bay, and glistening in butter...bellies full, and relationships cemented, totally at peace, and Happy as a Crab in Maryland.

Why Not?

It's like the title of Miles Davis's "So What" from "Kind of Blue"...

So What? Why Not?

Discipline has been my new mantra this spring/summer. Drink less, exercise more, try to indulge less with everything that might be bad. Yesterday we happened to pass by soft shell crabs. Could it be the season? Watching those cold little buggers in our fishmonger's case foaming at the mouth had me thinking I was looking in the mirror. Well, at least Grandma Burton would think so (As a backnote, Grandma Burton should have been the daughter of a waterman, she adored crabs, loved softshells, and loved everything of shellfish origin). As a whimsical wishlist I said, "I sure would do anything for one of those crabs, mmm, with butter, pan fried"...

Three years of marriage feels like twenty-five...not because of the hard assed labor and bitterness...but because it's like she has known me for twenty-five years and just seems to cater to me at every damned turn. Viola, here I come home to the picture featured above.

Thanks Mario Batali, Sauteed Soft Shell Crabs with Broccoli Rabe, Sundried Tomato Pesto with Capers, and Balsalmic Vinegar.

Discipline slipping out of the door, my wife said, "What should we drink with this, it's a special meal?"

Shield up, focused, head held high, "Sel..zer...(my voice cracked), it's a weekday, gotta get up at 4:30am and I didn't work out to...day(cracking again)"...

"Sigh....Lemme see what's in the cellar"...I trudge (only in my subconscious), okay, I run downstairs and unearth a sweet little bottle of Virginia Viognier from Pollak Vineyards...

Nice balance of acid with peachy apricot and honeysuckle notes...really balance out the buttery crab...

It's Wednesday night, boring night, diet night...

Does it really have to be mundane?

Skip breakfast, do a few sit ups, and no, it doesn't...

The Wedding House (Dana and Tom's Wedding Weekend)

Our latest adventure was something I had never been a part of...a wedding house. The goal of the bride was to bring the "band" back together again (all the kids from med school) and have them live together for 2.5 days. Throw in a wedding somewheres in between and there was the recipe for something...

Typically I HATE brides...they get all ooey gooey for THEIR day where everyone lavishes them with attention. Then they get uber bitchy and uppity and super proper (especially when you know they used to get railed in the local bar bathroom), pop out some pups, and well, you know the rest. Yuck, yikes, that's just what I HATE. H-A-T-E...those brides make me scared of marriage and children.

Over the years (early twenties until now) the weddings have come and gone and I have gotten a little more domesticated and used to the ideas of marriage and family. Only a few weddings have been stinkers (usually there is no alcohol and too much Jesus involved)...so this one piqued my interest because it was with good friends and this really neat idea actually housing the wedding party.

Success! Genius Success! I mean totally and amazingly awesome...here's the rundown/back story/sprinklings of fabled fame.

So the bride rents out a HUGE McMansion in Reston, Virginia....like 5,000 square feet, totally furnished, heated pool, man cave, pool table, huge kitchen...like we hit the lotto on this one. And then everyone flies in from all corners of the earth. Partying, eating, and silliness ensues.

Friday: Wedding party arrives, everyone gets their own room. The bride announces their is no rehearsal dinner, just casually catered dinner with drinks. Whawhawhat? You heard it...

Then the bride's in-laws appear (all fifty thousand, think Irish Catholics), and they are all a hoot. Happiest people on earth. Drinking, talking, reuniting. EPIC I tell you, damn epic. I got the chance to get drunk, not drive anywhere, and hang out with a ton of cool people. Can we repeat that Saturday? Funny you might ask that...

Saturday: It's wedding day, I am required to do NOTHING. Seriously, the girls sit around getting their hair and makeup did. The bride asks one favor, "Can you put the warm beer in the fridge to make cold beer?" Done and done, I go for a run. At 2pm the limo picks us up. I opted to hang with the girls all day...so there I go, hopping into the limo with beers and wine bottles. At one point in the ride a bridesmaid tells me it must be hard to hang out with the girls the whole time. I reply slyly saying, "Not that bad in a limo with a lot of upskirt action". My wife giggles...best wife ever!

The wedding takes place, a lot of beer, a great menu (believe it or not, generally wedding food sucks)...seriously a medium rare fillet and crab cake. Then the DJ just rocks it and our good friend Rob did the worm. He always does the worm, like a worm expert. Honestly, he's an orthopedic doctor/worm dancing fool. Being that he's built a little like Cecil Fielder(little chunky but damn athletic). So everyone sits there puzzled saying, "How does that guy with the belly do those athletic feats?"

Everyone danced, even our friend's granny who is 90 cut a rug...then we got all the free accouterments(flowers baby flowers)...then we jumped on the mega bus and headed back to the wedding house for the after party. The youngest 20 somethings started shotgunning beers, and the 30 somethings attempted to replicate. I had NONE of that.

Saturday 10pm....Bus rolls home, sleepy I find my second wind. Flip cup, me repeatedly denying to play flip cup saying, "I can get mighty drunk here at the bar by myself, I don't need to chug".

11:30pm: Someone opens up the pool...drinking + swimming, not a great combo, oh well, what the hell...there are a ton of doctors here right? And one of the doctors used to swim competively in college? No problem.

Things ended for me at 1am, too tired, too much beer, time to sleep.

Next day, brunch...me still doing nothing except relaxing and eating. We all leave, no drama, no cleaning up, and a great reunion and wedding with wonderful friends.

Who knows if the house made the weekend better, or the people in the house? But the idea, think about it...one stop shopping. A wedding house to host parties all weekend? Yes, of course, why did I never think of that?

Accommodations Part 1

Instead of doing something expensive, we elected for five days and four nights of camping in celebration of our 3rd wedding anniversary. The goal, set up camp in Luray, Virginia (nestled in the beautiful Shenandoah's) using the camp as home base for cooking gourmet treats by night. All the while exploring the region's offerings by day. Included, a blow by blow storyline with general insights, praise, and warning for current and future offenders of hospitality.

Day 1: Lift off...Arrival

When you are in Annapolis and need a great steak, hit up "My Butcher". For our final meal camping we chose porterhouse. Yes, there is a Wal-Mart in Luray, but I would rather have a fresh cut Porterhouse from a reputable butcher. "Mike the Butcher" is that and some. Although his store doesn't open until 11am, we banged on the door and begged them to open early...done and done, we hit the road, off to better lands.

What says AMURCAN (but made in other countries) more than Wal-Mart of Luray, Virginia, our first real stop before camping. After getting my fishing license from the skinhead working in the hunting section, we jetset with our new wares straight from child labor camps for cheap. Meg gets winks and stares from all men wearing Camouflage...I get hate filled looks as I'm dressed in Madras shorts with a t-shirt saying, "Mr. Strong"...might as well say "Mr. Fruity"...shaking my head and happy I have teeth we move on.

Safely and securely we arrive at "Outlanders River Camp" which is completely empty but in a good way. We found this spot last year and it's a beautiful one. Nestled at the bottom of the valley, ten feet off the Shenandoah river, and bordered by a beautiful pasture, we are isolated from everyone. The constant theme each night was good cocktails, stories of old, music, fire, and food. I don't suggest you go here on the weekend in the summer unless you would like to hang out with the Wal-mart crowd. I dunno, everyone is into something different I guess.

Day 2:

The Splendor of Luray Caverns...

Seriously cool to hike 1.25 miles underground while carrying the dog. Note to foreigners traveling in this here country...

1) When the Ranger says "DON'T touch the rock formations, they are old and will decay with touch", please don't act like you can't speak English. I can see you know it's wrong because you touch the rocks and look around to see if anyone is looking (Your Headphones are also saying that in your native tongue). And your dad who should have a cane because he can barely walk upright, please make him use the cane, the rock formations are not hand rails.

2) Please wear deodorant

3) When the Ranger is talking, it is impolite to talk over them, especially while wearing your Eurotrash shoes...they call us rude?


The Wasmund Distillery, Sperryville, Va

So the whiskey maker/helper wasn't too keen on giving us any free tastings, and after thinking about it, it made sense. But we got a killer tour at a Single Malt Distillery literally housed in a barn. Scotland just ordered 150 cases from them...remember, Scotland is Single Malt Mecca. The secret behind their hooch? Cherry and Applewood Smoking their grain. You can taste the smoke in the drink. And it was a blast going from the grain growing room seeing the grain all raked out and germinating, then to the smoke room, climbing the ladder to the vat and getting a HUGE whiff of a 2 day ferment...nearly took our heads off, and then to the finishing room. I kept saying, "Seriously, in Sperryville?" This is world class whiskey, and it's being done in the middle of nowhere. The maker said, "Why not, have you looked around at the beauty of this place?" Check em out, Copper Fox Distillery, they have a Single Malt Whiskey and a Rye. Equally great depending on your mood.

The Rappahannock Disaster

Matty: "Where to next?"

Meg: "Let's find some wineries in the area"...

Matty: "Well, 25 miles later, here's one, Rappahannock Cellars, I hear it's supposed to be pretty good, haven't we been there before? Maybe not...hmm.."

Matty: (Outside of the entrance), "It says we have to leave the dog leashed in the courtyard, go in an see if we can maybe have a tasting outside".

Meg: "Okay, sure thing"

Meg: (Returning, steam starting to shoot out of her ears) "They wont let us taste outside, they wont let her inside, and it's too hot to leave the dog in the car. I'm not tying my dog up in the yard like a redneck in order to taste their wine."

Matty: "Was the lady snooty?"

Meg: "No, but she was totally unaccommodating, we are THE only people here, we're leaving, I will NEVER taste their wine".

THAT is how to lose our business. Yes, we respect everyone is a small business owner, and there are rules. But if you like to make money and run a successful business, go the extra mile. Had you actually tried to accommodate us, we would have stayed, we would have probably spent money. Meg and I are both suckers for customer service. We received none, thusly we left.

Remember, Virginia wine still isn't that great...it's tolerable, and I've given it very favorable reviews. But your bottles are 22 dollars and up...I can buy pretty killer stuff for 30 from reputable well established places like Napa, or OTHER COUNTRIES...why waste my money on Virginia wine sentiment out of nostalgia and pride? I like your wine, I yet don't love it. Please don't take me for granted, no matter how many po dunk medals you won at the county fair last year. Henceforth, the title of this blog is called Accommodations in tribute to your lack of service.

Thirsty and hungry we headed back to Luray. And we land at this placed called "Victoria Inn Wine Bar". It has a porch, it's perched on the top of Main St, but I was not having high hopes after Rappahannock. Meg was steaming mad, and I was starting to smolder. At first glance, I saw this: Small menu, small wine list...losing hope fast.

As we walked on to the porch the owner was smiling, happy to have us. "Sure your dog can hang out on the porch" She says. As we sat we find out the following: This place is under new ownership...new blood coming out of Orlando. Husband/Wife team, he cooks, she runs the front of the house. They just opened 2 weeks ago, so already she's apologizing for the small menu and small repertoire of wine. Oh, and she spent hours upon hours on the play list for the music playing in the background? Let's also mention they have Thomas Keller quoted at the Mast Head of their Menu...these people have balls and as we delved into our first glass of wine, we start realizing we found something special.

BLT: Local Pork Belly Braised in goodness with a beautiful sear, Tomato Jam, Micro Greens

Crab Cakes: Jicama Slaw, Chipotle Mayo, Fried Lightly with a nice Florida Crab Cake style to them

Shrimp Fry Rice: Pure Goodness, flavor profile well developed, not greasy, but greasy enough

Pork Chop: Roasted Medium, Sweet Potato Hash

Chocolate Mouse Cake, Toasted Pinenuts, Creme Anglaise

Bill: $108...and we had 4 glasses of wine, that's a deal.

Literally we ran out of this place telling everyone we could find to go here. I could potentially see them on Food and Wine in the "Best New Chefs" category in the popular trend of better food gracing smaller towns all over the USA. Thank you!

Marterella Winery...

As we packed our bags and left our Redneck campground (winding our 3rd anniversary trip to a close), we knew we had one goal in mind. "Wood Burning Pizza Oven"...We had to visit that winery...we just met the owner yesterday, and we felt so chic. It was like meeting a celebrity. Hell, I think it was even better than meeting a celebrity. We had no idea what we were in for...

After navigating a great coffee house, Central Coffee Company in Sperryville, Virginia (Honest to goodness best coffee ever, greatest lesson in coffee tasting, and all certified National Wildlife Refuge for safe practicing of ecofriendly planting and disposal), and checking out a neat little winery called Narmada in Little Washington, we wound our way through a few pig paths to find Marterella Winery in Warrenton, Virginia.

One word, Home...

Going there was like coming home. Katherine Marterella was our kind of people. And that day, she was frazzled, stressed, all over the place. She instantly recognized us and graciously thanked us for coming. We told her we were hungry and looking forward to pizza and wine. She grinned, looked around, and ran out saying, "Shoot, I gotta get the oven going, gimme a minute"...her daughter stepped in to help pour wine and Meg and I started laughing. The girl, right out of college was not the local wine expert as she awkwardly read from the tasting notes...but something about the place stuck with us.

This was natural, and this was real. This was probably what Napa was like back when it was just honest farmers trying to make something special. It reminded me of watching "Bottle Shock". Sure there was swirling and spitting and discussion of floral accents with roundness and balance...but there were no airs. This, was the winery we wanted to open and run. This, was like Cheers.

Katherine came back to the counter and said, "Thank you so much for coming, you all truly made my day, it's been one of those days, kind of a bad day". And she kept moving with whirling dervish speed, pouring, making phone calls, and coaching her daughter on the finer points of running a business. Generally I'd find this off putting. I don't want to know if your day is bad, just serve me wine, do your job, I could care less about your life. Yet we were both strangely sucked in and felt at ease. It was like stopping by unannounced at your friend's parents house for a chat. While they were always busy, they always took time and never missed a step in running their own lives.

This was a lady running a business, making pretty good wine (The Reserve Rose and Pinot Grigio were my favorites), and giving lessons in hospitality by just being herself.

It was her house, it was a spacious sun filled room where everyone there was smiling, drinking, and laughing. Turns out, everyone there were regulars, they were all "her friends" as she said. I cannot imagine anyone going there and not being her friend (Should we move closer, we would be regulars and need help from Betty Ford herself). Katherine's personality is infectious, it's her spirit, organized, smart, businesslike, yet sometimes frazzled, sometimes all over the place. In the perfect place we all try to go and try to be, she was a reflection of what we could be if we had our own way...if we could get away with it. Casual, yet pragmatic.

As the day drew to an end, my shoes were off, Fenway was running around with the vineyard dogs, Meg was basking in the sun, and I was actually cooking the pizza in the oven. Katherine looked over and said, "Gettin' the hang of it, I think a lot of people enjoy doing that".

That, Yeah, I think we do, and I hope to be able to do a lot more of it.

Accommodations Part 2

Some of our trip has to be montaged in time based format. These snippets hold high comedy and remind you of what life would be like if you were as dumb as my wife was to marry me. That, and the fact that I cannot rage all damned day on one bad experience in customer service. Fun to note that we all can easilly dwell on the 1% that is bad, get riled up, and lose sight of the good...

Day 3:

11:30am: Johnsonville Cheddarwursts and a cold Natty Boh. One cannot say enough about meat in tube form. Sure it might be 11am, that's why we go hiking after a lunch like that. Back to happy thoughts...cheese, grease, beer...

Onward and Upward to the Jacobs's Death March on Skyline Drive. If you haven't driven Skyline Drive, do so. We hiked about 5 miles of breathtaking gorge/mountain/trail. I spouted off story after story of nostalgia camping/camp counselor memory while Meg said, "See, I like hiking, but this is a frekkin death march"...

5pm: Jamaican Jerk Chicken with Rice and Peas done on the grill accompanied with a nice cold Pale Ale or Pilsner.

7:30pm: Getting misty, this was really a week of telling Meg how much I loved her, loved everyone, and overindulging in alcohol.

8pm: I really love this awesome new whiskey from Copper Fox Distillery...let's pour another on the rocks. So smooth...ah, this Cigar is great...everything is just GREAT!

9:30pm: Due to the campfire starting to spin, I have one of the following:

a) Vertigo
b) Too much to drink
c) The Rapture is coming and this is how it happens

Still not sure on the answer...

3am: Why did all the sheets on the air mattress get rearranged? We both wake up shivering and my wife complains I smell of cigars and booze. I blame the dog for all of our troubles (The dog continues to snore and exhale loudly at the mention of her misdeeds).

Thursday, May 5th

Feelin' a lil' rough we decide to quell our misery with more sampling of the Virginia Wine Country.

Here are the wineries and their profiles:

Fox Meadow Vineyards: First winery of the day. Nice service, nothing memorable, a fine start (Remember, it was 11am, and I was just starting to wake up, shake off the cobwebs as well as the tremors. My palate was in no shape to sample wine, but my spirits were a little improved after the first whiff of fermented fruit.

Phillip-Carter: Awesome director Mark Parsons, GREAT Rose. Mark KNOWS food, and wine, and we were totally at home. Dog ran around the tasting room and he gave us good suggestions on where to eat for lunch. Coulda sat there for hours talking shop...yet we had to make good on his suggestion to eat at Forlano's in The Plains, Virginia.

Forlano's....Grilled Meatloaf on house made panini, Meg went for the BLT...had a nice Viognier from Delaplane Cellars with lunch. Across the porch were two ladies stopping for lunch with their Golden Retriever. Naturally, I introduce Fenway and we learn one of the ladies owns a winery. "What's the name of your winery" I call as they head towards their car. "Marterella" she calls back. "Stop by tomorrow for lunch, we have a wood burning pizza oven." Spirits renewed with that post food coma wine buzz, I elected for a nicely brewed coffee for a pick me up. Listen, there is an art to riding the line when mid-day wine tasting.

Naked Mountain Winery: Drink Naked! Under new management, sweet locale on a Mountain. Really liked their Reserve Chardonnay. Dog ran around, bright sun, vineyard, certainly awesome new young owners. Although none of the wine blew my mind I would always go back. Again I find it so interesting that I can write such scathing things about things I dislike. However, when it comes to something that was rather enjoyable and it met our expectations, I sit here typing these little one liners.

5pm: All set for our Porterhouse, we put it aside. Too exhausted for MORE gourmet, we did it all day. Leftovers would suit us just fine. Three nights of camping was starting to get to us. It was time to go home...