Posts Tagged ‘woodford reserve’

road trip yo

Tuesday, August 2nd, 2011

Just in time for my next vacation (Michigan for a whole big Crockett family hoedown), I uploaded the pictures from my last vacation.

This was our route:
Thursday – Drive like hell. Stop in St. Louis. You can see from the picture above that we totes made it.

Somewhere in the middle of Kansas is where I started smelling this whole mess, but somewhere outside of St. Louis is where we discovered it. (Our rear seat heater melted Crockett’s backpack. It was a whole big thing. Thanks, Audi!)

In St. Louis Crockett was pissed about the backpack thing and I was mofo hungry. We were in an Eastern suburb of the city on a Thursday night and I really wanted BBQ, so I tracked down this 17th Street Barbeque place online.

I was both thrilled to be there and exhausted to the point of ridiculousness.

It was about 9 when we got there, and they officially closed at 10.

They were not thrilled to have us.

You know that feeling? When your server just wishes you’d get the hell out already? We sat in the bar, and there were other people there, but the staff were emptying ketchup bottles in plain view and asking ‘anything else’ every second.

They corned their own beef, though, and made a damn good Reuben. Plus, I had my first hushpuppy and found it fabulous. It was totally worth the server hating us.

Friday – We chose not to take the more direct route to our end destination of Buffalo. Instead, we headed a little south and carried on east until we arrived in …

central Kentucky! (Every mile or so I said ‘but BABE, it’s so GREEN’ and Crockett said ‘awww honey’ in that I-sometimes-forget-you-grew-up-in-a-quasi-desert voice.)

Why central Kentucky?

So we could visit someone?

Well, sort of. We were visiting the home of Woodford Reserve.

See, they make something like 98% of all bourbon in that part of KY. (It’s not technically bourbon if it’s not made in America.) Our original plan was to do at least part of the Kentucky Bourbon Trail, but we underestimated how long it would take us to get the hell out of St. Louis in the morning.

We chose Woodford because it was the only tour that charged ($5) and we figured that meant it had to be awesome.

It was.

The distillery is a whole bunch of buildings that are all over 100 years old, but the distillery building is the oldest – it was built in 1838 and I want to live there like you can’t even know.

This was my favorite part. While these look like little train tracks, they’re actually barrel tracks. As in, the barrels are delivered up the hill and rolled down to the distillery on the tracks. This tourist lady was standing right in the middle of them and I secretly hoped a barrel would come flying down and she’d have to dive out of the way.

Sometimes I’m a bad person.

Inside the distillery was a whole bunch of stuff being distilled. Obviously. There was yeast and stuff in here, I think.

I was far more interested in the building.

How much do I want this to be my great room ceiling?

Hell, how much do I want a great room?

That’s not to say there wasn’t bourbon, though.

There was bourbon forevah.

Crockett could look but he couldn’t touch.

I was mostly picturing this big copper still thingy in my new stone great room.

After the tour there was dessert for Crockett…

and dessert for me. Pecan bourbon balls.

You could buy them in the gift shop, but they had a tray for us to munch on while we sipped our drinks. Crockett drank my drink and I ate his (and everyone else’s) bourbon balls.

Then, of course, we had to sit and eat, because it was wayyyy after lunch and we were in the middle of horse country with no other food prospect in sight.

Crockett ordered us a chicken salad sandwich.

I  love it when chicken salad has almonds and cranberries in it.

See? Horse country.

Friday night was a gigantic mess. I freaked out at about 9:30 and insisted that we GET OUT OF THE CAR RIGHT THEN, despite the fact that we were still two hours from our goal of Erie, PA.

We tried to stop in Mansfield, OH, and in return Mansfield tried to murder us. Several times. There were two seriously creepy motels, there were maps that lied about where we were, there were roads that went nowhere.

It was fucked up, y’all.

We ended up stopping at a Super 8 lord knows where. I just know we got about 20 miles north of Mansfield before we felt safe enough to stop the car. Fortunately, the Super 8 was across the street from a karaoke bar.

I will not post the video of me and Crockett singing Total Eclipse of the Heart. Or the video of Crockett singing Brother Love’s Travelin’ Salvation Show.

Mostly because we don’t want to have to fend off a bunch of record producers, ya know?

Saturday – We made it to Akron, NY, the little town outside of Buffalo that Crockett grew up in.

We were there through the 4th, so we got to see the hometown parade!

There were bands and approximately 17 million fire trucks. Everyone threw candy.

Candy and gum. (Yes, I am a classy lady, thank you for noticing). The two big companies (and by big I mean a couple hundred employees) in Crockett’s hometown are an ice cream factory (Perry’s) and a bubblegum factory (Ford Gum).

I know. He grew up in a Rockwell painting.

His fabulous parents fed us grilled Italian sausage, roasted asparagus, and baked beans made from Crockett’s grandmother Fay’s recipe.

If I’d known in advance how great those beans were, the proportions on this plate would have been a little different.

It’s entirely possible I ate them cold out of the fridge later while no one was watching.

After dinner we wandered around town, holding hands, until the fireworks started. We stopped under the nearest convenient tree to watch the show. Just picture me snuggled in next to Huck Finn up there.


Rockwell painting.

The drive was totally worth it.