Gratitudinal musings

That’s the little country roadhouse where we had our pre-Thanksgiving dinner Wednesday night. It’s been there, on the side of Highway 49, since 1947, when it was just a Quonset hut set up to feed logging truckers. In fact, the Quonset hut is still in there, in part, behind the facade on the right half.

We had a couple of steaks — it’s prix fixe, inclusive of steak, salad, baked beans, and a dish of ice cream (flavor of the day) — a couple of martinis, and we sang Happy Birthday to three different people in the room. You can pay a little less there and cook your own steak on the open grill, but we decided to let the chef (who was also our waitress) do the deed. Rare, baby.

Almost didn’t make it on time because our hike just before threw us a curve and we popped out of the woods on a country road and had to make our way back to the car with dusk yielding quick to flat-out dark. It’s always a longer walk when you need to be somewhere. No worries, though. They saved our table for us.

Then yesterday we walked along the American River, way back on the Middle Fork, and only turned around because the trail headed uphill and we wanted to stop and eat lunch. Found a nice rock to sit on right beside the river and ate our chicken/stuffing/cranberry sandwiches with the dog. Pretty much heaven, cool and overcast but sparkling with fall color.

Only the arrival of a politician who came by on a training run threw things a little off track. He’s trying for a county board of supervisors seat and claimed to be neither Democrat nor Republican, though he sure sounded like a Republican to us. We thought he was a little strange too, wearing no shirt and talking way too much. He had me take his picture as he stood on a rock. Maybe it’ll wind up in his campaign materials, though nobody wants to see a politician shirtless, if you ask me.

By the time we got home, we were all pooped and ready for a chillin’ evening of lamb vindaloo, a fire in the fireplace, and enough TV to get us to bedtime.

Thanksgiving.

 

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