God Bless husbands who can cook and cook well. Tonight, I was treated with trout atop red pepper and onion cous cous.

I'm a lucky girl.

Disclosure: photo taken week of Feb. 12.

Asheville is where the blue jeans are. And the funky warm sweaters. And the dogs. And the dog bakeries. And people spinning things.

And street violinists.

And people wearing jester hats who watch street violinists.

Therefore, it is where I also want to be. Always.
Christian will need to wedge my rigid body back into the car for the drive back to Savannah Monday, because I ain't goin' without a fight.

After aforementioned scrumptious breakfast prepared by our hosts at The Inn on Montford, we started our day out by parking our car at the end of a street lined with hip stores and presumably pottery studios with names like Dirt and restaurants with names like Table. Said cool avenue also seemed to be home to the city's drug dealers and homeless. We passed on the primo bud, in case you're wondering.

We wandered around Downtown Asheville and began our disgusting American consumption ritual. Like mad. Christian had to pull out the shackles when I found The Three Dog Bakery. I was about to purchase an $8 dog toy that could have easily passed for one of our (read: Christian's) many old, holey socks that The Blondster would have just pulled out of the bottom of our laundry pile anyway.

We then ventured into The Chocolate Fetish where you'll want to know the difference between your basic milk chocolate truffle and the ones they dust with CAYENNE PEPPER before selecting your purchase.

While licking our Cayenne-seared chocolate-coated lips, we meandered into The Malaprops Bookstore and Cafe, where they had an entire section of the store devoted to Southern writers.

Ok, let's get to what's really important: stuffing our gullets. On the recommendation of a wise, wise co-worker (whose blog I would reference here IF SHE HAD ONE!), we indulged ourselves in the delights of The Tupelo Honey Cafe.

We started out with fatty but fantastic grit cakes which were mixed with cheese, lightly dusted in cornmeal and fried to perfection.

Christian had the Eggs Betty while I engaged in an affair with Tupelo's Turkey Pot Pie.

I'm telling you. I've never felt this way about a pot pie. It gave without taking. With its gentle gravy, pearl onions, firm carrots and tasty turkey, it made sweet, sweet tender love to my tastebuds in a way I never thought possible. I just can't talk about this anymore. It's too soon.

More food later.
Asheville also has many underground independent publications, none of which I'll likely take the time to read, but I like to look at their pretty colorful covers arranged neatly on the bedspread.

Ok, my husband is now looking at me like I've gone to the dark side. He's sure he's created a monster with this whole let-your-wife-blog thing.

Perverts.
I'm talking about FOOD.

The new and improved B. Matthew's on Bay and Habersham isn't just prettier (new Web site, menus and decor), it's tastier. And it's for dinner. Last night, the hubbster had the yummy Grilled Chicken & Andouille Sausage Gumbo with some weird pointy pastry sticking out of the dish, which I quickly devoured (as he continues to point out to me, he just doesn't share my love of baked goods). I had the Turkey Pot Pie. I was pleased. Very, very pleased. My pleasure has continued from last night into today, in fact. I'm going to see if I can ride this wave of oral bliss into Monday, but I'm not holding my breath.