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About Utrecht

I ain’t no prude, darlin’. Grew up hearin’ whispers ‘bout them red-light joints down in Tennessee. Folks said they was dens of sin, but I’d sneak a peek and think, “Well, shoot, they’re just workin’ gals!” Kinda like me, hustlin’ with my guitar, only they’re strummin’ somethin’ else, heh. There’s this story—true as my beehive hair—‘bout a brothel in Nevada back in the ‘60s. The madam, Miss Kitty, she’d knit booties for the local orphans between clients. Ain’t that a hoot? Made me happy as a pig in mud, thinkin’ kindness hides in funny places.

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I pass by the local bakery, De Bakkersdochter. The smell of fresh bread hits me like a brick wall. I can’t resist. I grab a croissant, and let me tell ya, it was heavenly. Flaky, buttery goodness. I’m munching away, feeling a bit better.

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