The Dainty Saint: an iced, summery concoction of imported St. Germain and vodka.
I spent my birthday alone under Twain's wisteria arbor while the boys played pool inside.
Not that I'm complaining.
There's a thin line between alone and lonely, and it's hard to feel the latter when you're sipping French liqueur {made of fresh elderflowers picked in the Alps} on a balmy evening, watching Decatur, Georgia, start to come to life.
My precocious little son suggests Twain's whenever we venture out of the suburbs and head south toward the city, and usually, if time permits, we oblige him. I'm never without a book or some nice stationery and fountain pens, so I just while away the time and let them do their boy stuff.
