Today was the Waynesville Apple Festival. I have attended this particular event before and found it wonderful. My good friend Tammy Lynn Huffstutler introduced me a couple of years ago. We made the trek again today.
In preparation for the festival, I stayed the night at their very homey hilltop home in Greene County. Tammy Lynn so graciously offered to fix us breakfast, but remembering festivals from days of yore, there were lots of decadent food truck options offering many savory, dripping in fat, smoked and fried delicacies. This is in addition to the many restaurants and cafes lining the Main Street of downtown Waynesville. So upon the offer of breakfast, I politely declined, gently reminding my dear friend of all the gastric options that would be available to us in short order. But she mentioned she thought she could eat an egg, so we opted for an egg apiece on tiny toast. And off we went.
We got pretty excited to find parking at the bottom of the hill for $5. Until we walked to the TOP of the hill and found parking for $5. #winded
So we figured out the “system” and joined the masked masses clumped up and traveling down Main Street.

We were among the minority of unmasked, and dogless. Or catless. We saw a tabby cat on a leash wearing a Halloween tutu-type collar, being carried around the neck, much as one would wear a fur stole. I did try to get a picture of THAT, because it was put down near a hydrant and sat placidly. The song lyrics “I’m just a freak on a leash” did enter my mind 🎶🎵
But this is a story about food, not cats.
So we were automatically scanning, checking out our choices. So far, it was looking like kettle corn and pretzels. But we remembered last time all the food was on the far end. So we pressed on.
We visited the bakery, housed in a cool old stone building. But no, we would wait. The possibilities, we were sure, were endless.

At the end of town we found a barricade. No apple pies, no bar-b-que, no italian sausages or philly cheese steaks. There was a food truck with hot chocolate.
Ok, we gotta formulate a plan at this point. So the first restaurant we came to looked pretty good after perusal of the posted menu. But there was a line out the door to be seated and so we pressed on, sure of other places on our route, mere steps away.
We continued.

Tammy Lynn made best friends with a couple who were leading around a pair of Irish Wolfhounds.
I bought the sheep I’d been eyeing, and due to anxiety I acquired as a very young child over a certain stuffed parrot, I had to purchase it ASAP.
After that, we checked back at the restaurant and learned from exiting patrons they had an hour and forty-five minute wait.
Next. We were positive we were mere minutes away from food.
An hour-ish. No.
We decided we’d get a pretzel to tide us over and we’d find something down the road because we were noticing a trend. But the pretzel line was long. We then happened upon a slice of pizza but I’m picky about pizza, and I had pizza this week, so I hated to ruin a perfectly good meal that I was sure to be eating within an hour with greasy-heavy-on-marinara-sauce pizza. We pressed on.

Lobster rolls. This sounded appealing. I especially liked their inflatable lobster and small stuffed lobsters spaced strategically around their booth. Chowder. Yes. $22…..let’s think about this realistically. We’re not in Maine. We’re in the Southern Appalachian mountains. Unless these were ACTUALLY crawdads, chances were that it wouldn’t be exactly primo. And $22 to eat out of styrofoam while walking around with hundreds of other people and no sink….I’m not sure about this.

We continued on.

Back at the truck, we explored options via Google maps. And settled upon Haywood Smokehouse, quite agreeable to both of us.
Off we went the short mile and a half to a neighborhood bar-b-que joint.
And you could get in the gravel lot, but you couldn’t find a place to park it. And the wait, according to one grizzly gentleman perched on his tailgate, was 40 minutes. But by the looks of things, it would be over an hour, for sure. IF you could find a place to park.
“We can be HOME in forty minutes,” TL says.
“Let’s just go to Sagebrush in Newport.”
Home, James.
We’re at the interstate and she says, “You ever heard of a place called The Woodshed?”
I was never beaten behind the woodshed, and it just so happens (even though I’m from “below the tunnel”) I DO know about The Woodshed. And it was decided we’d eat there. We were pretty excited.
It had been determined that Toyota’s GPS is about as trustworthy as Nissan’s, so we used my phone. It was just a few minutes and we were exiting and mere seconds away from a delicious late lunch. And good thing, we were both borderline hangry.
“There it is,” I say, pointing out the wooden sign. My GPS confirmed we were at our destination and I turned it off.
It certainly wasn’t much to look at. Gravel lot, right on the highway, a little trashy. BUT, we are in Cocke County.
“I dunno about this place…” Tammy Lynn wheedles.

“Oh no, it’s fiiiiiine, all the best places are holes in the wall,” I tell her, vividly recalling that little Italian place in St. Augustine that served up the best clam linguine this side of the Atlantic. It had grass growing up in the concrete outside and a poodle sitting at the hostess desk. It was rated #3 of ALL restaurants in St. Augustine. And I almost passed it up because of what it looked like on the outside. I wasn’t going to make that mistake again. Book by its cover and all that.

We park right up front, “like we own the place,” my friend declared. It wouldn’t be much to own. She also decided “this is my kinda place, dogs laying around”.
There is a fairly aged, heavily tattooed, very hairy, motorcycle gang member looking fellow on the front porch. I’m think he was playing checkers with his lady friend. There was a younger version of them to the left. There were kids running barefoot all around with a small pack of large dogs. And one small, mangy looking grey kitten at the edge of the porch. TL is making conversation with the younger couple and is playing with the kitten. All I can think about is food. Any food. Saltine crackers and a can of tuna. Whatever. And she’s talking with everybody, as usual. Telling them how she’s heard great things about this place, and how we’re so excited to be here.
In addition to the people of the porch, there were also two tables full of rocks. I’m perusing them, inching towards the door, hoping she follows my cue. I’m thinking it’s kinda quaint, like when you’re at the beach and some restaurants sell little shells and trinkets in their lobby.

We enter.
A long bar stretches across the back wall with a beer cooler behind it. Lots of glass cases with more rocks and crystals and agates. TL used to work at the Rock Shop in Gatlinburg so I knew she’d be all into this.
A girl pops up from behind the bar, half giggling.
She is missing a front tooth.
“What can I do for y’all?” She asks with a little giggle.
“Uh, we were hoping to eat,” I say, thinking, ‘what else?’ and wondering why there was no beer in the giant beer cooler. I peer into adjoining rooms, seeing a makeshift bedroom to my left and untold things to my right. I am still undeterred, thinking it’s like Ye Olde and their labyrinth of rooms. I was sure people were dining just beyond. Weird that it didn’t smell like food, though….it just smelled like patchouli.
“Ohhhhh….y’all are looking for The Woodshed!” She says, and for the first time I notice her dreadlocks.
I squint.
“It’s behind us, up on top of the hill.”
Of course it is.
“It sounds like we’re not the first ones to make this mistake,” I remark, trying to save face.
“Oh no, not at all.”
We’re in some sort of hemp shop/ CBD dispensary.
But Tammy Lynn says, “But we’re gonna look around while we’re here!”
Let me remind you, we have eaten exactly one egg on mini toast at 10:00 this morning. And one small sample sliver of toffee. It is now nearly five o’clock. I am getting mean.
I sigh and pick up a very smooth, perfectly oval rock off the counter closest to the door. It is very nice and I appreciate its perfection. There are two. I do not need a perfectly smooth rock, and neither does Tammy Lynn. I hear the shopgirl saying, “It’s a wand…it’s made from {extinct tree wood found in the most remote portions of the rain forest, inlaid with the pinfeathers of a twelve year old bald eagle, burned with the ashes that came from sacrificed Salem witches, and blessed by the Dali Lama himself} so it’s the real thing.”
I whip around to get a load of this sacred stick.
I’m thinking it’s funny, because on an adventure with my aunt during the Christmas season last year, we found ourselves in a similar shop. Why does this keep happening to me? I have no spells in need of casting.
I point out the smooth rocks to Tammy Lynn. I knew they would appeal to her nature. She does love them and has picked one up and is caressing it lovingly. She compliments the shopkeeper.
“That’s actually a fertility stone,” she tells us.
TL dropped the stone like it was lava.
Meanwhile, I’m eyeballing the wall of marijuana.
And just when I thought we were home free, she picks up a crystal by the front door and is telling the girl about the one she owns that has a water bubble in it.
I all but pull her out by the hair on her head.
The scene on the front porch has not changed.
I’m trying to hold it together.
We got turned around and headed up the steep graveled incline to The Woodshed as we try not to pee our pants from laughing so hard.
Then I about couldn’t get their door open.
We get the sweetest waitress ever and order our food. The sweet tea was perfection, so we were off to a good start. We manage to pray between bouts of uncontrollable laughter. Clearly, we are surrounded by locals who think we’re drunk. In actually, we are starved, rabid foxes.
The waitress brings out our food. I’m taking a picture to commemorate the meal I’ve literally been waiting for all day, and when I look up, Tammy Lynn is methodically rolling up the sleeves of her flannel shirt.
I giggle.
“I hope you don’t embarrass easy,” she says, and I lose it all over again.
In my state of hunger, I knock my container of au jus and spill some. I see the puddle, it’s not a big deal, it’s not going to slow me down.
But at the end of the meal, when I go to stop it up and move my plate, it comes to my attention that my plate had been all but floating in the lake of au jus. And TL knew it but never mentioned it.
Luckily, she’s not the type that embarrasses easily.
So. If you ever find yourself in Cocke County in need of a good meal, I strongly suggest The Woodshed. Make sure you go to the one on the hill, not the blue building closest to the highway. If you see a bounce house, you’re in the wrong spot.