Edit 32:Four Days
I didn't come to Charleston to chase flowers. And yet there they were—wild pockets of wisteria spilling from unexpected corners, azaleas burning pink against iron gates, dogwoods doing their fragrant "you love me or you hate me" thing. The hydrangeas were just beginning, and Confederate jasmine wound through it all like a thread of sweetness. They were all happened upon, not sought, the way the best things usually are.
I had come to Charleston to be in Madeline's world for a few days. She's been a journalist at the Post & Courier for four years now—recruited straight out of Ole Miss's Daily Mississippian where she was the EIC, so well before she'd even crossed the stage. That detail never gets old. Deadlines don't pause for mamas, though, so she worked Thursday and Friday, and the city became my companion in the in-between hours. I wandered. I antiqued. I let spring lead me down streets I love to frequent and found myself grateful for every one of them.
The antique stores alone were worth the trip. Terrace Oaks, Farmhouse Antiques and Garden Center, The Station in Park Circle—each one its own small world, the kind of places that reward the unhurried and curious. I wasn't always looking for anything in particular, but that, I've learned, is exactly the right way to look, and I found some real gems along the way.
Happily, the days were bookended by her. Every evening, Madeline came home and we went out into her city together, and each night felt like its own small gift.
Our first was Felix Cocktails et Cuisine.
The mac and cheese with gruyère and crispy prosciutto that we are still talking about, a raclette burger worth mentioning, and a dirty martini with olives stuffed with French cheeses that has permanently recalibrated my expectations. I'm not sure I can go back to blue cheese, and I'm not sure I want to. We ended the evening with a jello shot before ice cream, because sometimes that's exactly the right order of things, and laughed in the way you only laugh with someone who has known you your whole life—or whom you have known their whole life, which is its own particular joy.
The next evening brought something different entirely.
We dined al fresco at Sorelle on the first day of spring, and it was everything we hoped it would be—unhurried and warm in every sense of the word, the perfect way to welcome a new season in a beautiful city. We watched people and horse-drawn carriages pass while the service settled around us like something easy and familiar. I had what the menu called pillows of gold, with Very Good Butter, and they meant every capitalized word. We shared zeppole with a chocolate tiramisu-like mousse for dipping, and the evening felt as decadent and generous as the city itself.
Saturday brought Brasserie La Banque and one of those meals the stuns you in the best way possible.
We were sat at the chef's seats—at the bar, looking directly into the kitchen—and comped profiteroles before we'd even settled in. We ordered a chocolate croissant draped in the most luscious chocolate, perfect for dipping into coffee if you were so inclined (and I was). We watched the chefs prepare Madeline's eggs Benedict—she is a connoisseur, and she was satisfied, which is the only review that matters—and my gruyère omelet arrived cooked to French perfection. Fluffy. Fluffy. Fluffy. We were in no hurry and the kitchen didn't ask us to be.
After brunch we dashed through bookstores—Ladybird with its independent charm and carefully chosen shelves, then Barnes & Noble for the particular comfort a well-loved chain can still offer when you're in the right company. We picked up a few things for her apartment after, headed home, and settled into the coziest of nights: milkshakes, television, each other.
This is what I came for, I kept thinking. Not the flowers, though I loved them. Not the pillows of gold or the martini or the chef's seats—though I will return to all of them in memory for a long time. I came for this: four days inside the life my daughter has built, savoring every conversation, every familiar episode of Castle (which we can both quote), every hug, every laugh, every peek into her room in the morning to say hello. As a mother I love every precious moment with my daughter, but there is something extra special to see how wonderful and grown she has become (and continues to be). She corrected my em dashes once, in an Edit, and I have never been prouder.
Charleston is good. But Madeline is great.
