Fresh back from a road trip to the Smoky Mountains. The seed for this latest adventure had been planted over a year ago while my most introverted friend and I sat in her basement putting together a jigsaw puzzle.
Low-key activities are our thing. Calm. No fuss. No drama. Just… peace.
I’d asked her what her bucket list consisted of.
She didn’t know, but she said she’d think about it. I told her that when she figured it out, I’d be happy to accompany her on the adventure if she wanted.
I figured this would be a safe promise to offer to this calm, no-fuss, no-drama human.
She comes back to me with a plan. “You drive.”
I say okay.
“I’ll cover the Airbnb.”
I say okay.
“The girls can come up from Florida and meet us in Gatlinburg.”
I say okay.
“And we’ll go ziplining.”
I don’t say okay. “You mean you and the girls will go ziplining, and I’m the Uber driver.”
She said no. “’We’ means you and me.”
And that’s how I ended up on a zip line with this dear, sweet, calm, covert adrenaline-seeking junkie.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. This post isn’t even about ziplining—I’m still processing what happened during that terror-filled hour.
This is about what happened in the nooks and crannies leading up to and around that day.
I’ve been on a kick lately—and not a good one. As much as my friend seeks high-wire thrills, I’ve been seeking culinary highs, something to tingle my taste buds and make me forget about grief and loss and estates for just a minute. Something to zip me away that doesn’t require a harness, a helmet, and a mountainside drop-off.
Last summer, I visited a Buc-ees near Houston for the first time. Yeah, yeah. Tourist trap wrapped in a gas station with buck teeth, I know. But…
Beaver nuggets. I was a fan.
We found a Buc-ees on the way to Gatlinburg. So… Beaver nuggets. Two bags. You can’t get this stuff just anywhere, you know.
Oooh. And fudge. I couldn’t decide which flavor, so I got the sampler pack.
Oooh. We can have a taste-testing at the cabin ( a grand justification to try all the flavors).
I pop one in my mouth before we even leave the parking lot. “I wonder what that middle stuff is?”
“You want me to read the ingredients?” She says this with a hint of snark as she turns the bag around.
I pick at the sticky on my teeth and think for a second. “No. No. Let’s not look at the ingredients.” Could ruin the moment.
As the trip progressed, I realized not only had I packed sweet little culinary kicks in the form of Milano cookies (two flavors), Tony’s chocolate bars, and Strawberry Shortcake Goldfish Crackers, but I had also amassed quite a sampling of samples.
Now those two bags of Beaver Nuggets.
Queue up the Arts District and meet a bona fide Smoky Mountain Fudge Artisan (she had a badge in her shop window) who informed me that Buc-ees is mass-produced and hers was made with love and real butter.
I try a sample and feel the love and all the butter.
(Pro tip: if you’re heading for Gatlinburg, skip the gas station fudge and visit one of the locals. Gas stations are best for Beaver Nuggets and that plastic tub of potato salad.)
Through the trip, I grazed on all flavors.
But then I found myself stress-eating.
Turn on the phone for a bit while waiting for our gang to leave the cabin and a mass of political headlines hits me, which threaten my fragile peace vibe.
What to do? Pop a Beaver Nugget and move on.
The next day? Alaska’s under a tsunami warning.
Well, fudge. What to do? Pop a Beaver Nugget and move on.
The next day? Coldplay inadvertently unites the entire world via Jumbotron.
Well, fudge. What to do? Raise an eyebrow and pop a Beaver Nugget. And some fudge ‘cause I can’t even.
And move on.
Burned through an entire bag of Beaver Nuggets in under four days. I have no idea how much fudge.
The first morning back home, I end up in the clinic when a problem I’ve ignored for weeks becomes a problem I can’t ignore. Discover I have a right rotator cuff tear.
Well, fudge.
What to do?
Open that last bag of gas station delight. Ignoring the ingredients, I promise myself that this is the last bag of culinary kicks for a while.
Pop a few Beaver Nuggets with the left hand.
And finish off that last bit of Smoky Mountain fudge—let the love and butter do the ziplining this time.
