Let Them Eat Toast

So Eddie and I had grand plans this weekend. Saturday: Quantum of Solace (a.k.a.: 30 Days Around the World with His Majesty’s Hotness Daniel Craig). Sunday: brunch at Sherlock’s, starring the long-anticipated Bananas Foster French Toast. Bananas Foster reminds me of the Ordoyne’s kitchen in Atlanta, and my pyromaniac father eager as ever to light something on fire. French toast reminds me of Kip and Misty at the Anchor Inn in Oregon, cold mornings, gothic beaches, and gardens bursting with flowers. For over a week I looked forward to sinking my teeth into new maple syrup-drenchedmemories.

I should really know better than to make plans.

For all of you playing the home game, Sherlock’s doesn’t open until noon on Sunday.  To me, noon says "lunch." Eddie and I arrived with our growling tummies at 10:30 am, prime brunch time. It’s 30 minutes to Lebanon from my house. We now had 90 to kill. And we were hungry. "Come on," I said, defeated. "There must be a Cracker Barrel around here." There was, of course (HELLO, this is Tennessee, after all), and I was able to check out the selection of quilts while we waited for our table. The food was reliably yummy (I recommend the Sunday Homestyle Chicken), and the serving girl was both cute and helpful. I asked her where the nearest Goodwill store was and, despite the fact that she told me she was horrible at directions, she led us straight there.

I loves me a stone house…

But not before I took a small detour. Lebanon, TN is full of antique stores (which, depressingly, are all closed on Sundays), and sprinkled here and there are some fabulous houses, including some like this stone one pictured above. I have always adored stone houses — they remind me of my grandmother’s blue stone house on the hill in Vermont. The House at DeRonde Drive. One day I’ll have a house like that. Maybe even that one. For now, I just covet others.

But the house that made me pull over was a fully restored, completely tricked-out, birthday cake and gingerbread Victorian. Oh. My. God. My parents know I could never own a house like this without a maid and a yard man and a handy man and several other odd people roaming the grounds…but what a dream. A beautiful, frosting-covered dream.

Lee’s house of dreams

The trip to Goodwill was fruitful, bearing a slightly steampunky handbag, a well-preserved tome of Byron’s works, and a pristine copy of Sherrilyn Kenyon’s Character-Naming Sourcebook (very useful, and very out-of-print), all for $2.99 apiece. We made our way back to Sherlock’s (stopping briefly so Eddie could take a picture of the shrunken head in the window of Cuz’s Antiques on the square) and I spent a few lovely hours writing, chatting with Jill, and listening as an excited Kelli Dunlap told me stories about her heritage over the phone. Oh…and listening to the stupid football game on the television, because I forgot to put headphones in my new computer bag. Apparently, the Titans lost their first game. I’m not that sad.

I had a caramel latte from Sherlock’s cafe. It was very yummy, and something I would definitely order again. Maybe next week. If I’m not too full from my French toast.