Southern Living

Years ago, as we were planning a trip to Hilton Head Island, several friends told us we just had to eat at The Olde Pink House, a legendary spot famous for its indulgent 7-course dinners. Since this was long before Mitch became a fitness freak and was still, like me, a normal, face-stuffing American, we went.

Located in Savannah's oldest mansion (circa 1771, its red bricks long since faded to pink) on a tree-lined street dripping with moss, we felt like a couple of extras on the set of "Gone With the Wind." The meal exceeded our expectations of Southern cooking: I can't remember the specifics, but I'm certain everything had been soaked in butter and pelted with sugared pecans back in the kitchen. And the dessert was legend: "Be sure to save room for the Peanut Butter Pie," we had been told repeatedly.

After the first six courses but before dessert, it became obvious that my circulation was being cut off by the elastic waistband of my pantyhose. I could barely breathe, making it all but impossible to eat any pie, let alone survive the long drive back to our hotel, without fixing the situation. The pantyhose had to go.

I was wearing a one-piece jumpsuit, the fashion of the day. Not one of those prison orange denim ones, but a lovely silk print, still it was all one piece. Figuring I would just slip it off inside one of the bathroom stalls, remove the pantyhose and put the jumpsuit back on, I was stunned to find that the Ladies Room was literally a room, and a small one at that, with two toilets right out in the open, no stalls whatsoever, and with the added bad luck of no lock on the door. What kind of savages were these Southerners anyway? Still, if I worked fast all would go smoothly.

I worked fast. Halfway through my plan, dressed only in a bra, two genteel older ladies entered the bathroom. Reeking of perfume, they wore sensible shoes, big hats and tailored suits. They gasped in simultaneous horror. One of them looked like she might faint. I said the only thing that could fully explain things to their satisfaction: "I'm a Yankee."

The pie was fabulous.