I'm Lindsay Ferrier, a Nashville wife and mother with a passion for family travel, (mostly) healthy cooking, exploring Tennessee, and raising kids without losing my mind in the process. This is where I share my discoveries with you, along with occasional deep thoughts, pop culture tangents and a sprinkling of snark.
June 11, 2006
>Perhaps some of you are wondering where I’ve been. Er, where I am. Well, on Wednesday, Hubs and I left town for our annual honeymoon trip. We started out in Cashiers, North Carolina, worked our way through the small towns of Silva and Dillsboro and ended up here, in Asheville, where I’m typing to you from a four poster in a sumptuous Bed and Breakfast.
I’ve had computer access so that I could answer e-mails and post some things I had written in advance of the trip, but I figured that reading other people’s blogs while on vacation probably would indicate that I have a blogging addiction. And that would not be a good thing on a honeymoon trip. So rest assured that I will catch up with all of you by the end of next week.
Oh. And then there’s the fact that the wireless Internet at this sumptuous B&B isn’t working. And neither is my laptop keyboard. Which means that I have to bring my laptop, a Radio Shack keyboard I bought the other day, and a realllllly long dsl cable into the front parlor of said sumptuous B&B, set it all up on an antique loveseat amid much tripping over cables and near-electrocution incidents, and cut and paste what I’ve written here in my room while the Brooks Brothers set titters at me from behind their hands.
The things I do for you people!
I do have to tell you quickly about our dinner in Highlands, NC a few nights ago. It was Friday night, which meant there was live entertainment in the renovated barn where we chose to dine. That entertainment consisted of an aging gentleman with an acoustic guitar crooning Wildfire into a microphone before a dozen assorted diners. Mercifully, we were seated in the back of the room.
As we sat down, he finished his song and garnered a scattering of applause from his audience.
“Thank you,” he said dryly. “All. Four. Of you.”
I looked up at Hubs from my menu and giggled. The rest of the patrons grew uncomfortably silent.
“You know,” the singer continued, “I’ve noticed you all actually talk to each other when I sing, so I’m gonna do another one now…” He launched into Unforgettable. I fished a pen out of my purse and smoothed out a paper napkin. This guy was too good to forget.
As he finished the song with a flourish, he paused to take a large gulp of wine from a glass beside him before peering out at the crowd.
“I’m dying here,” he admitted. “I’m dying. From here, though, it looks like you’re dying and I’m okay.”
Ouch. At our table, I was writing furiously on the paper napkin hidden on my knee, pausing only to taste the marvelous blue crab soup we had ordered. The waiter was being unusually attentive, and I realized that with all the surreptitious scribbling I was doing, he probably thought I was a food critic.
After a Nina Simone-inspired version of American Pie, I realized I was the only one clapping. But how could you blame me? I was loving this guy. He put down his guitar and fished around in his shirt pocket.
“Let me put my glasses on,” he muttered into the mic. Adjusting them on the bridge of his nose, he peered out at the tables before him. “Oh my. There are people here.”
After draining his wine glass, he launched into another tune, then stopped. “I must say,” he said, “that this is the most fun I’ve ever had on what I’ve decided will be the last night I work for somebody.”Oooh. Vicious. This was better than a Dynasty re-run.
“I am accepting tips, you know,” he said, waving a large glass holding a few ones in the air. “Hey, here’s fifty bucks,” he said in falsetto. “Take a break.”
I couldn’t have asked for more. The food was not so bad, either, although we were disappointed to find that South African Malva pudding was no longer available for dessert.
“We read a review on the Internet that raved about the Malva,” I explained to our waiter.
“Wow,” he murmured. “I’ll have to ask the chef about it.” In the meantime, we ordered a slice of chocolate cake that ended up being wonderful
As we were preparing to leave, the mannish-looking chef/owner came to our table. “What’s this about the Malva?” she asked, crouching before us.
We told her about the review.
“Well, to be honest, that recipe belonged to my sous chef, who was a fucking bitch,” she admitted. “When I kicked her ass out of here, she took the Malva with her.”
Sounded like a good explanation to me. We’ll be back. We will definitely be back.