As I sat at the table, a peculiar feeling washed over me – almost like the onset of an illness or the aftermath of too much sun. It might have been the lingering effects of the sumptuous chocolate decadence that capped off my birthday dinner. Oh, did I forget to mention something else? Yes, there was that unexpected paddling incident too.
You see, up in Sweet, Idaho, at Anderson Reserve, a peculiar birthday tradition unfolded. This revelation came courtesy of Samantha, the fiancée of the owner, Paul, who approached our table with an enormous charcuterie board accompanied by an Idaho State Trooper. My initial thought? "You're not planning to hit me with that, are you?" But her response was quick and unexpected, "No, but your wife certainly is."
Now, here's where things get intriguing. The restaurant, it turns out, is teeming with law enforcement officers. From upstairs to downstairs, cops were serving tables, warmly greeting guests, all in the name of raising funds for the Special Olympics. I turned to the State Trooper, half-jokingly saying, "Aren't you supposed to be my protector?" With an unconcerned shrug, he replied, "I'm just here to observe."
Guided by our law enforcement escort, we were led to a corner where a young cowboy, complete with a Duck-worthy beard, had been entertaining the crowd with his guitar strumming and heartfelt singing. As it turned out, he was in on the whole plan. Amidst the melodies, he broke into a rousing birthday song, and my wife, Penny, wielded a giant paddle, showering my backside with playful swats. Involuntarily, I let out an exaggerated "ouch!" – a nod to a comedic bit performed by my friend Scott's five-year-old self in LA. You see, I was riding the wave of my newfound confidence as a comedian, mentally cataloging every sight and sound for future comedic material.
Meanwhile, the entire upstairs erupted into a jubilant yet decidedly off-key rendition of "Happy Birthday." It was the kind of cacophonous chorus I secretly relish.
As my turn approached, I grasped a Sharpie and signed the charcuterie board. The ritual continued, with the next celebrant eagerly stepping up for her turn. It made me question the legitimacy of this many birthday celebrants in Sweet, Idaho. Can there really be such an abundance of birthdays here?
Descending the stairs, I found myself in a small country store that showcased various sauces, honey, and an assortment of NHRA memorabilia owned by Paul. Known for his culinary skills, tonight Paul was out back by the silos, overseeing the construction of a cigar bar. A gathering of folks was engrossed in conversation, and amidst them, Samantha recognized me, extending a warm greeting. I tactfully joined the conversation when appropriate.
Paul and Samantha's story, it turns out, was not one of marital bliss just yet. Amidst the bustling restaurant, marriage plans took a back seat. In jest, I suggested, "Shall I become ordained then? I could marry you two and photograph the wedding!" Admittedly, I'm neither a wedding photographer nor an ordained minister, but spontaneity is our modus operandi.
More friends arrived, including the craftsman behind the silos and the windmill that dotted the landscape. Amid laughter, another recounted firing rifles at targets amidst a sprawling ten-acre patch next to the golf course. Mind you, this is the county – not the city – where such liberties still persist, unlike the place I used to reside. The unconventional fun that many label as abnormal holds no qualms for me.
A shared idea emerged, kindled by Paul and Samantha: stand-up comedy in the upcoming cigar bar. September was marked for their grand opening.
The silos stood there with a sense of belonging, fitting perfectly into the landscape. The dry, undulating hills framed the scenery, evoking a Western movie set. Not far away, the Payette River meandered along, contributing to the enchanting backdrop. During our journey earlier in the day from McCall, we stumbled upon a serene spot along the Payette. From a bridge above, I watched the rafters lazily float by. Later, a quaint country store beckoned, promising a tantalizing purple gold huckleberry shake – a detail I mentally filed away for future use.
Friendships sprout rapidly in Boise – just initiate a conversation, extend your hand, and you're in. It's truly that simple. But wait, were you expecting a detailed restaurant review or a menu recommendation? Regrettably, I'm not your source for such particulars. The finer details escape me, and note-taking has never been my strong suit. However, what does linger is the emotional imprint that places like Anderson Reserve leave behind. Undoubtedly, the food is exquisite, though I'm reluctant to impose my choices upon you. My preferences are peculiar; I shun cheese, I sidestep sweets – well, mostly.
Anderson Reserve beckons with its culinary delights and a distinct atmosphere, merely an hour's drive away. Venture forth to meet Paul and Samantha. Don't forget to gaze at the helicopter stationed outside – could a ride be in your future?
Perhaps the strange feeling I experienced was nothing more than a fleeting sensation. But then again, isn't that how life often unfolds – a series of ephemeral moments that weave together to create lasting memories?
Before I conclude, I almost overlooked a pivotal tale. This birthday paddle tradition owes its existence to none other than Paul's father, Dennis. Alas, this time I missed the chance to meet him. The inception of the paddle prank involved a group of California girls passing through, and it was Dennis who wielded an enormous charcuterie board, remarking, "I hear it's your birthday!" The unsuspecting girls took the bait, lining up along the upstairs rail, their derrieres presented for a playful paddling. Playfully reprimanding his father, Paul quipped, "You started it." A twist of fate led to an 82-year-old lady declaring, "It's my birthday too!" – thus birthing a tradition that thrives to this day.
The dry, undulating hills framed the scenery, evoking a Western movie set. Not far away, the Payette River meandered along, contributing to the enchanting backdrop