My Trip to the Big City

Boy, do I hate traffic.

I forget how bad Atlanta traffic can be (not intellectually, but emotionally) until I'm in the thick of it again.

Yesterday was my doc appointment down yonder. We got south of Husband's home county when traffic came to a sudden standstill. Very odd thing to happen there, in the middle of the day. We found out why.

A terrible wreck (going in the other direction) had just happened, the responders were jumping out of ambulances and firetrucks, grabbing gloves, stretchers, etc. They were running to people lying about on the ground. I tried not to look too closely, I am not a rubbernecker by nature.

I just started praying.

But traffic didn't clear up. That's because we came upon another wreck, also going the other way. It was older, and although there were still some firetrucks left, it was mostly cleared. I figure that's what had traffic backed up so badly before the first wreck we saw even occurred.

I was wrong.

We were pretty much at a standstill, traffic as far as the eye could see both ways, and we were barely into Cobb County.

Finally we saw what had started traffic buildup: a funeral procession. It was military, I was told later. A dozen police vehicles, twenty or more motorcycles with flags, and lots of other cars in the procession were going slowly up the interstate. Traffic had stopped on both sides to honor it.

What is usually an hour and fifteen minute trip was a full two hours. I walked into my doctor appointment with five minutes to spare; only because my little voice had told me the day before we needed to leave really early. I actually listened to the little voice. Whoda thunk?

When we got out of the doctor's office, guess what? Yup. Traffic was really bad.

So we did what was smart. I knew physically I was doomed no matter what we did (and I was right, somebody dial 911, I'm hurtin' too bad to do it myself) Why sit in traffic when you can go to your favorite restaurant and eat like a pig?

I had only eaten breakfast, lo many hours previously, not knowing I would be in traffic forever, so I was one hungry woman.

I don't know what this place does to their chicken, but it is altogether a different chicken than your mama cooks. Not saying your mama doesn't make good chicken, I'm sure she does. But this chicken is cooked over a wood fire, and they put sooper sekrit stuff on it that makes you almost weep. Of course I had mashed taters and spinach cooked in olive oil with little chips of garlic thrown in.

A moment of silence, please.

We usually don't order dessert in restaurants because: a. it is ridiculously expensive and b. we are too fat already.

But Husband was feeling expansive (ha!) and we decided to indulge.

The waiter described it thusly: "It's an apple crostata, which we won't be serving much longer. Cooked in a skillet over the wood fire until the crust is toasty brown, it is then smothered in vanilla bean ice cream with a cinnamon syrup."

Translation, in case you don't speak Eye-tallion: We fry it up in a arn skillet and put vaneller ice cream on it then drownd it with a sweet surp till it gives up the ghost.

They served it up in this little iron skillet about the size of a bread and butter plate that would tickle your granny to see.

The weird thing was, it must have had some kind of magnet attached to it, because over and over, I had to keep stretching my arm further to get my share. It kept zooming over to Husband's side of the table, no matter how many times I scooted it back toward the center.

What it was, was, the best fried apple pie I have ever put in my mouth, and that's saying a whole lot.

Have mercy.

When we left the restaurant, it was still bumper to bumper (what is wrong with these people?), so we went to our favorite department store to kill another hour.

I got some Christmas shopping done. (Don't hold your breath, it was very little) and bought some necessary things: a new spatula as the handle of mine had snapped off, a really cool picture frame for mere pennies, some socks, stuff like that.

Finally, traffic had cleared and we journeyed to the house.

Only took us seven hours to get there and back.

I'll try to forget about what it does to me until April; my next appointment with doom and doctor.