The Cornbread-Chattanooga Shuffle

Nevermind the highway noise – in spring, the frogs owned Monteagle, the stretch of Cumberland Plateau that slashes across Middle Tennessee. Amid the passing of semis and packs of agitated motorists clogged behind them, the frogs croaked in unison. Something about spending the night atop the Cumberland Plateau always felt special. We might be 1,000 feet higher than everything to the northwest, but it felt miles higher. Arriving late, we ascended the steep highway that killed my Corolla years ago and stopped, just wanting a place to relax before heading onto our six-year tradition, one of our relationships longest.

We stopped for the night on Monteagle, but our next step lied down in South Pittsburg. The National Cornbread Festival awaited us six years running – literally in my case, at least for most of the road race. We descended the plateau around 7, even though we could have slept till checkout time. The Cornbread Festival 5K beckoned me for the sixth consecutive year, my longest streak for any race. I sweated at the starting line.

The heat wilted the field; many walked from the started or ran through the first half-mile. Once my heart pumped properly, I could managed with the course of rolling hills and one major unconquerable hill. Again, no water stops anywhere on the course. The course took its usual meander through South Pittsburg. The friendly town always turns out for cornbread runners.

The first-timers always announce themselves on the last mile, attempting to run up the significantly steep final hill and not walking. I walked, turned at the hill’s’ peak then took gravity’s aid all the way to the finish line. Crossing the finish line, once again I secured the sixth-consecutive 5K finishing time slower than the previous year’s race.

The race in the books, the festival already throbbed with people. Cornbread Alley had more people photographing themselves in front of the entrance than entering for cornbread.

We received more samples from the local civic groups than any previous year. We seemed to breeze through the line, our plates heavy with cornbread concoctions different from any other year. The cornbread field was broad, from honey to parmesan chive to cranberry walnut.

The easy winners were sweet Georgia peach cornbread and broccoli cheddar cornbread. Classic cornbread tasted well, but was served in a hunk that proved difficult to finish without drinking a whole bottle of water.

This year the festival had free cornbread tents spread around the festival. We quickly learned how that worked – the festival volunteers put out a plate of cornbread, a few people scarf it up and the rest wait for more cornbread. We already sampled our way through Cornbread Alley; free cornbread did not change our checkout time on Monteagle. We had no time for the national park-inspired quilt exhibit at the American Legion hall. Back atop Monteagle, we stopped at Mountain Outfitters so Nancy could acquire a new pair of Chacos.

Then came Chattanooga … admit it, if you read this blog, you might be tired of reading about Chattanooga. Still, you shouldn’t be. Every visit evolves into an adventure. Every time Nancy and I reached Chattanooga, we find new facets to explore.

This time, the exploration began in the neighborhood of our Airbnb. It was unfamiliar territory, about a mile from the North Shore district we always enjoy. Immediately we realized how much we like the rental. It could sleep four and boasted a porch that fronted on the quiet street. The space reminded me of second and third-floor apartments in Lakewood, Ohio. It was an older space with long, narrow rooms capped by a broad sun room comfortable any time of the day.

Our ride into the North Shore was interesting and had no qualms about telling us about them (two previous rides included a man with a service dog who went to the liquor store and another man who wanted to go to a pawn store with items from his house).

As our cornbread wore off, we finally succumbed to the allure of Good Dog. The hot dog parlor drew long lines and short wait times for dogs with better variety than the similar businesses in our town of residence.

Nancy constructed her own dog off the ingredient list (mango salsa, avocado and queso fresco) and I stuck with the menu (the Doggfather – garlic-herb cream cheese, pesto, roasted red peppers, grilled peppers and onions). Above the seats, a collection of plastic lawn ornaments feted us. From Jesus to Mrs. Claus to the Tasmanian Devil, they all glowed inside Good Dogs.

Hunger obliterate, we strode through Coolidge Park – Butch Coolidge Park, as I like to call it, thinking that Bruce Willis’ character from Pulp Fiction might have landed in Chattanooga instead of his intended Knoxville. Kids ran joyously through the splash pools, exhilarated by the assertive streams of water. At the river bank, some kids craving more water were entranced by the water. Wisely their parents scolded them and urged them back. The humidity brought of a full crowd of screaming children to the splash fountains.

A few boats plied the Tennessee River, swollen with water from the rainiest spring in a half-decade. Above us the pedestrian bridge bustled with activity. Along the Coolidge Park drive we wandered through an antiques gallery, which included a substantial record collection. All my old favorites appeared – antique glass and pitcher sets, sculptures of cats and owls in various poses. After commenting frequently on the affordability and reasonable pricing of the furniture, we stumbled upon a surfboard table in wonderful condition, then stumbled upon the price tag, which was far from reasonable. The one item would have driven home comfortably in the Scion was too expensive to fit. In the gallery, Nancy found a pair of records, including a tribute to James Dean's three films. I scoured every bin and came up empty.

At Winder Binder, one record-buying patron felt the need to blare over potential purchase from his smart phone. I had to walk away to keep from murdering him. As Nancy shopped, he blasted music then sheepishly dropped the volume until only he could hear it. Had I not been scouting the fiction, I might have torn him to shreds and prepared for the death penalty. Still, I had the choice of two copies of the soundtrack to The Vikings, ultimately picking the first mono pressing with the teeth-gritting depiction of Kirk Douglas on the front. While avoiding said customer of his equally annoying spouse playing a guitar and blocking the aisles, I found a Rick Bass novel and a collection of essays about Plains Indians in the 20th century.

If has Chattanooga has an early dinner spot for Nancy and I, it’s always Terra Nostra. The tapas place entranced us years ago and five visits later, its allured has not dimmed. We sampled through small plates of asparagus, cannelloni, saffron mussels, olives, a cheese plate and shrimp-avocado salad. At Terra Nostra, always go with a bottle of Spanish white wine – whether albarino or verdejo, none will disappoint.

After a grocery stop, we waited in the brutal sun for a ride-share. As he arrived, we noticed the first incursion of storm clouds into a bright Saturday. By the time we reached the rental, the first sprinkles grazed us.

In minutes, a deluge hit Chattanooga and thunder rumbled. Tennessee has seen this brand of spring weather throughout 2017. In South Pittsburg, cornbread festival organizers closed the festival early Sunday, clearing out in advance of rough weather. In Chattanooga, the storm proved we wrong about any thought about running back to the rental and skipping a ride-share. The birds that nested in the front trees scurried to avoid the sudden downpour, then chirped wildly once it passed. Unheard before the storm, a woodpecker drilled triumphantly as the storm shuffled eastward.

Once the storm passed, we ventured out into Chattanooga. We stopped at Mike’s Hole in the Wall, the tourist-free neighborhood bar we discovered in December. The friendly dog of the previous trip was not there, although numerous other dogs loitered on the patio while their owners drank. The bar was packed, its patio and interior crowded although its outdoor televisions locked and sealed to protect them from the masses and the weather. After a drive downtown and into the neighborhood we stayed at a year ago, we landed at the Honest Pint. Although passing the Bitter Alibi, we couldn’t find parking in a decent radius for the irregular weather.

The Honest Pint was only a cursory Irish pub, Irish in the sense it had more Irish whiskies and Irish brews than most places in Chattanooga. I had a Connemara on the rocks solely because I could see the bottle from our seats at the bar. Nancy ordered Tennessee cider while I veered further east to a Paulaner hefe-weizen. For the most part, the Honest Pint was a giant old bar with odd staircases plus ornate pillars and mirrors behind the bar. The pimento cheese fritters were rather delightful.

We adjourned to the rented porch. I remember sitting and briefly talking, then I awoke at 2:15 a.m. to Nancy in bed and me alone on the comfortable porch. As I lurched into bed, the temperature felt comfortable in the entire apartment. The storms knocked out the oppressive humidity that enveloped the Tennessee Valley until early evening.

Instead of waiting out our checkout time, we had to meet brunch guests who drive up from Atlanta. In nine years of driving down from Nashville, they were the only guests I ever expected to see in Chattanooga. I was glad my parents were game for a Sunday drive. We could have lounged at our Airbnb as late as possible, but we loaded up and debarked for downtown to meet them for brunch.

We returned to the Bluewater Grille, a nice seafood place minutes from the Tennessee Aquarium (pure coincidence). Despite feeling like we had only just visited the Bluewater Grille, it had been more than three years since our last stop. We were overdue. Everyone ordered off the brunch menu – crab cakes for Nancy and Mom, fillet omelet for my Dad and a crab omelet for me.

After we parted,  I watched them walk back to their car, just as they saw them a few weeks ago over Easter weekend. To anyone else, they might be another old couple talking softly to each other. I view them a little differently. Having seen them on two of three weekends, I realized it was the most consecutive visits we’d had since I moved to Nashville 10 years earlier. When we lived across town from each other, it was once or twice a week. Now it’s usually three to four visits a year including the holidays. Thought of the old visits occupied me as they walked off.

Nancy and I didn't linger. In minutes, our car joined the northwestern flow of the interstate, the fits and stops all falling beneath hills greener than anywhere in the Southeast.