The morning after the peach cider incident we awoke ready to face our problem with a fresh face. Of course, all the positivity in the world wouldn’t change the fact that my autographed Paula Deen cookbooks were still wet at their page ends, the spine of one suffering to the point of separation, the scent of peach lingering ominously over them all. The suitcase, thankfully, was lined with plastic inside. It was completely clean, free of any imaginable stickiness and the scent of peaches.
I may or may not have tried to pin the whole course of the peach cider events on my sweet, innocent Hubby the night before when we finally laid down to go to sleep. I tried repeating, “They are just things, they are just things” over and over in my head, but still couldn’t shake that my precious books had been the only thing damaged in the great cider incident.*
*Other than the cider, of course.
Even despite this, and the melt down of tears that did eventually ensue, Hubby suggested we go off course in route to the Atlanta airport and squeeze in a return trip to Savannah.
He is seriously the best.
I know there is a slight possibility that he also wanted to return to Savannah to have another chance to enjoy the best southern food in the world, but even still, he is the best.
Before going to Paula Deen’s, he surprised me with a second stop at Back in the Day Bakery. The last time we were there, he saw their second cookbook on the shelves and made the mistake of asking me if I wanted it.
Of course I wanted it. But I said no. I usually do that when I’m trying not to spend money. Or if I’m in a bad mood. Or when I feel like I have already been overly spoiled. Yes, I think it might have been that last one.
If it hadn’t already have been signed inside, I know he was readying to ask the girl at the register if Cheryl and Griff would come out (again we could see them in the back working) and sign it.
Of course, we didn’t only get the book. How could we walk in there and only buy the book when there were delicious masterpieces staring us in the face? We ordered a vanilla cupcake with chocolate frosting and a chocolate chip cookie.
Both were divine.
After this experience, Back in the Day Bakery books are now my go to for anything baking related.
After getting fresh copies of my three books, we went to Lady & Sons for the lunch buffet. During our tour, we heard they served Savannah Lemonade–their alcoholic version of an Arnold Palmer, with sweet tea. I knew before I sat down that I was going to try it. I ordered and immediately the girl asked for my ID. My ID, of course, was in the car*–a five minute walk away.
*I feel I need to note here that ordinarily I never, ever, ever leave my ID in the car. However, because we were on vacation and doing a lot of walking, I got into the habit of not carrying my big bulky purse everywhere we went. Hence, no ID.
Lance then proceeded to order the drink, in hopes of sharing it with me. Unfortunately, he forgot what a rule follower I am. There was no way in heaven or hell that I was going to sip that drink with the waitress who knew I didn’t have my ID with me constantly moving about behind our table.
Perhaps it was because our trip was drawing to a close, or maybe I was feeling rather emotional, or maybe because I was thirty now and it was starting to feel real, but I melted apart for the first ten minutes of our meal.
All over a stupid drink.
When I finally pulled myself together, I was able to enjoy what after second taste we still consider to be the best southern food ever.
In case you’re wondering, the authentic, real deal of Paula’s ooey gooey butter cake is really all that it’s cracked up to be.
When we left, my most wonderful Hubby ordered another Savannah Lemonade to go.*
*Did you know that in Savannah you can take your unfinished alcoholic beverages out of the restaurant with you?
We laid back on a bench sipping the lemonade and listened to tunes played by an elderly gentleman on the flute. All things considered, it was a pretty wonderful afternoon in Savannah with my most giving, loving and generous Hubby.
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