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.