I just got a message from my son that Paula Deen is staying at his hotel tonight.

I can’t tell you which one since they don’t want groupies showing up, but it rhymes with Doe’s Motel.  I’ll never forget the time I met her at his hotel several years ago.  We were having brunch and she and her husband, Michael, were seated across the room.

I made everyone in our party change seats so I could watch her.  She ate her grits and her sausage just like real people,  and no one seemed to notice we had a celebrity in the room. That’s the way it is in Nashville – no one is that awed by anything.

As she stood up to leave, I cut her off at the front door and told her that I had all her cookbooks and watched all her shows. She treated me like we were long lost friends.  We hugged and I sniffed her fragrance – I think it was butter and sour cream.

That was several years ago. Now I’ve lost interest, I guess.  William, my son, said she asked about me. Sure she did, baby.  But you made my day with your little white lie.