Last week, I went to North Carolina for breakfast. Maybe that doesn’t sound like a big deal to you, especially if you live in North Carolina. But I don’t. I live in South Carolina, which, contrary to popular belief, is actually a different state. Well, okay, we are talking about a fifty minute drive from home, but did I mention it was a school day? Or that I didn’t decide to go until an hour before I left? Who says I’m not spontaneous?
Me. I do. Not even a little spontaneous. Allow me to illustrate. A few weeks ago, my friend BD’s husband called to tell me he planned a surprise birthday trip to the Big Easy for his wife, and he thought I might want to go along, make it a girls’ weekend. He sent me the flight and hotel information and told me not to tell her, but that if I wanted to go, I should just show up at the airport and fly with her. He gave me two weeks’ notice. I gave it some thought for about a minute, but then I succeeded in coming up with a gazillion reasons why I couldn’t go and bowed out of the trip. Later, BD told me that when her husband mentioned to her that he had invited me along, she asked him if he was crazy. She told him how I hate to fly, how I plan my life out a year in advance, and how I have an irrational fear of New Orleans. She knew I was the last person to ask to scramble for an impromptu trip.
So, no, it’s not my imagination. I really am that inflexible. The other day, my friend JR asked me to drive up to Hendersonville, North Carolina, with her. Her artwork had been on display at a gallery there since the beginning of the summer, and she needed to go pick it up. She thought it would be fun for us to drive together and make a morning of it. The kids were back in school. The husbands were at work. It was a moment of uninterrupted grown-up time.
As usual, my first instinct was to say thanks, but no thanks. I wanted to go to the gym. I had a massage appointment scheduled for noon. I needed to buy bagels. I might have some laundry to do. The massage and the gym were my only real excuses. I decided to work that angle.
“I don’t know,” I told JR. “I really want to go to the gym.”
“Oh, come on, you can take a day off,” she said. “Two hours of child-free conversation. And we can stop for breakfast before the gallery opens.”
“Well,” I wavered,” I also have a massage appointment at noon.”
“I can have you back in plenty of time. I have to pick up lil JR by one anyway.” Lil JR is her two-year old.
I did the math in my head. An hour to drive up, an hour back. That left about fifteen minutes to get the art out of the gallery when it opened at ten. I wasn’t really sure how there was time for a meal too. I took a really long minute to breathe. JR waited patiently for me to answer.
“Okay, I’ll go,” I said. I tried to make it sound like I wanted to. Because it’s not that I didn’t want to go. I did. I just didn’t see room for a road trip and my daily routine.
Sensing my reluctance, JR offered to drive. That morning, we dropped our kids off at school, and up to the mountains we went. Even without the leaves changing colors, the mountains of North Carolina are a beautiful sight. The rolling hills turn into immense green mounds, and you can count the churches, BBQ joints, and rebel flags along the way. Truly, the drive has a little something for everyone.
We got to Hendersonville in less than an hour and found a parking spot right near Mean Mr. Mustard’s, a quaint eatery unlike any we have here in Greenville. I loved the restaurant at first sight. Small tables, mismatched chairs, Beatles paraphernalia on the walls and counters. It was not all bright and flashy, but simple, like you could show up in your pajamas with your hair sticking out all over and your morning breath, and they would happily pour you a cup of coffee. The other patrons were retired and elderly and also were enjoying the luxury of a mid week breakfast out, so we were in good company, if one were looking for some hot over-85 action. We ordered our food, scrambled eggs for me, a veggie omelet for JR, and we talked and laughed while we waited for our meals.
The mark of a good breakfast joint in the South is the grits. Are they snow white, thin, and a little al dente? Because if so, don’t bring them to me. I can make those at home. I want coarse, stone-ground slow cooked grits, thick and creamy, the kind that need no extra butter, salt, or cheese. These grits were perfection, ambrosia, and only were rivaled by the float-like-a-cloud biscuits and homemade blackberry preserves. Company aside, those grits and biscuits were worth the drive.
After JR picked up the tab, which was part of her bribe for getting me to go with her, we walked over to the gallery. It was about ten, opening time, only the sign on the door said they opened at eleven, not ten. JR panicked and texted the owner, leaving her message after message, but it was clear by the lack of response that 11:00 was pretty firm.
I called the spa and luckily could push back my massage until 12:30. That allowed us to relax a bit, so we wandered up the street to check out the boutiques that thought ten was a reasonable time to get the business day going. We tried on a bunch of tops at one store, really cool funky stuff that looked great on the hangers and the 2% of the female population that are built like hangers. We decided we looked more like trolls than models and left empty handed, loathing our figure flaws.
With a few more minutes to kill, we went into a pet store, not the kind that sells food and de-worming products, but the kind that sells home baked dog treats and couture hand sewn dog dresses. They even had a selection of dog foot ware, from booties to jeweled sandals. I didn’t see any heels, so it wasn’t totally out of control. Still, $150 for a dog dress seemed a bit extreme, even for the over indulgent. How does a store like that make rent? Do they really sell enough raincoats and matching rubbers to cover their overhead? And no, we didn’t buy anything there either.
We met the gallery owner right at eleven, just as she unlocked the door. Within ten minutes, we were back in JR’s car, artwork packed in boxes, and headed for home. I made it to my massage appointment with one minute to spare.
JR was right, I did have enough time for a morning drive to the mountains, a fabulous car- filled breakfast, and a much needed break from routine. I recommend eating breakfast in a different state. It’s tasty and refreshing, and I don’t mean the grits. But seriously, they rocked.
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