Kentucky

Two weeks ago J.D. and I were rolling through the hills of Kentucky during an unbooked week. It was as if we were following in the wake of a giant’s rampage. A recent ice storm had decimated the state only weeks earlier and the evidence was all around us. Fallen trees and piles of downed branches lined the streets. Disheveled evergreens still stooped low as if under the burden of snow and ice, despite their verdant boughs being stark naked. Everywhere we went, the scars of the storm were obvious, but they never diminished the richness of our experiences.

Rabbit Hash

I found information about a place called Rabbit Hash along the Ohio River famed for its old-time general store. We take the drive out there and find a charming community, one listed as a National Historic District. The Rabbit Hash General Store (est. 1831) was in full swing with a Sunday afternoon concert. Inside, the walls and even the ceilings are littered with goods. Some are common like groceries and souvenirs, but others are antiques and one-of-a-kind curiosities. At the center of the store is a piping hot wood stove with several pots of soup bubbling on top. By the beverage coolers, a gruff old man sells beer and pop and baskets of peanuts dot the shelves in case customers get the munchies. The beverage man explains to us about the weekly Sunday concerts and the barn dances in the summer. The band that Sunday, Tupelo Honey, plays to a crowded store while neighbors catch up on the front porch with a Bud and a cigarette. All of it is a beautiful site: music, fellowship, food, drink, and a long-standing community center.

Bourbon

We visited five bourbon distilleries that week: Jim Beam, Maker’s Mark, Woodford Reserve, Buffalo Trace, and Heaven Hill. By far the best tour was Maker’s Mark, but our favorite bourbons were at Heaven Hill and Buffalo Trace. The worst for both was Jim Beam, not even worth the stop. Not only was it interesting and fun trekking our way down the bourbon trail, but now we know what makes a bourbon a bourbon. It must be made in the United States, must have 51% corn, must be aged in new, charred white oak barrels for at least 2 years, and must not have any artificial additives. At when it’s done right, it’s mighty good.

Famous Graves

How could we spend a week in Kentucky, in Louisville no less, and not pay our respects to the Colonel? Well, we couldn’t. On a cold and windy Thursday we drove to Cave Hill cemetery and honored Colonel Harland Sanders, king of Kentucky Fried Chicken. A couple of days later, at the Louisville Visitor’s Center, I learned that he didn’t even start the restaurant business until he was 65! I guess you’re never too old to try something new.

In Frankfort we visited the supposed grave of Daniel Boone. Boone died in Defiance, Missouri and was originally buried there, but Kentucky decided to move him to the state he spent much of his life exploring. However, when they exhumed his grave, they may have taken the wrong bones. Both Frankfort and Defiance claim to have Daniel Boone, so until I’ve been to Defiance I can’t be sure I’ve actually been to his grave.

Mutton BBQ

Owensboro is the barbecue capital of Kentucky and the stand out smoker is Moonlite BBQ and their all-you-can-eat buffet. Coupled with the International Bluegrass Music Museum, we felt the Moonlite was worth the two hour drive west from Louisville. We arrive and find the joint bursting with all kinds of people lining up for lunch. Ahead, the steam trays hold a cornucopia of Southern goodness: mac and cheese, green beans, mashed potatoes, turnip greens, baked apples, pinto beans, pulled pork, and the unique western Kentucky specialty of barbecued mutton. I pile my plate high, order a sweet tea sweet enough to eat through steel, and dig in. I should have stopped at one plate, but the mutton was too good to be true so I headed back for more. Bad idea. We both hobbled out of there feeling what I can only imagine a pregnant woman feels just before labor.

Four reasons why I love Kentucky, and I left out a whole lot more that made our week outstanding. My great grandfather Frank Lyons came to Washington from Kentucky about a century ago. I actually unknowingly drove within 15 miles of his former home, McQuady, during our week in the Bluegrass state. Though I know no more about my Kentucky heritage than what those two sentences say, after that week I can assure you that my blood runs a little bluegrass.