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Ashes in Ink

5 days ago

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Ashes in Ink is at Santorini Spoon.

7 days ago

Abbey and I have been traveling a lot of late, capturing content for clients all over the Southeast. The invitations to visit businesses and small towns haven’t ceased flowing, and I have been loving every solitary moment of it.

Earlier today, we were standing in a thicket of blackberries, cameras in hand, when she described herself as “pleasantly surprised and completely unprepared," in light of the latest chain of events we’ve encountered. That phrase sums it up pretty well, actually. We try to stay organized and meet the itineraries head-on, but life has a way of making it all so much more interesting.

Especially when you're wandering through small towns in the Southeast looking for stories.

This evening proved it, but before I tell you about the frozen Greek yogurt topped with olive oil and sea salt that nearly changed my religion, let's back up.

Abbey and I were gathering content, which sounds underwhelming on so many levels until I tell you that we actually began our day picking blackberries at a vineyard while staring at mountains so insanely beautiful they looked suspiciously photoshopped.

Y’all, we were supposed to film a vineyard. We expected bottles and wine pours. A pretty bar. Maybe a gift shop with elevated dish towels and artisan soap.

Nobody warned me there would be blackberry picking. Nobody mentioned mountain views. Had I known, I would have dressed differently and probably brought a pie crust. We left with a gallon of blackberries each and more optimistic outlooks on life and travel.

From there, we found ourselves in a bookstore that felt like something straight out of a novel. In a beautiful old Downtown building, the kind with creaky floors, plush chairs that begged you to stay awhile, and shelves full of loose-leaf tea lining the walls, along with a coffee bar capable of convincing reasonable adults to buy one more book than they intended and get cozy in the oversized leather chairs, breathing in the aroma while reading it.

At that point, I felt confident we had reached our quota of unexpected delights for the day. I was wrong.

Because that's how these stories work.

Just next door to the brilliantly appointed bookstore, we stopped in for a late afternoon pick-me-up at a place called Santorini Spoon. The sign outside said, “Frozen Greek Yogurt.” Now, when someone says, "frozen yogurt shop," I have a mental picture. Bright colors. Sprinkles. Teenagers. A toppings bar. Children operating at a frequency only dogs can hear.

What I did not picture was a little piece of the Mediterranean quietly thriving off a side street in Downtown Cleveland, Tennessee… and I definitely did not picture olive oil and sea salt frozen Greek yogurt.

And what I most absolutely did not expect was Ahmed.

Ahmed spent thirty years running his own catering business. Thirty years. Think about that. For three decades, he fed people, served communities, celebrated milestones, and built a reputation around hospitality and food.

Then retirement arrived. Or at least it tried to. As it turns out, some people don't retire. They simply redirect their passion.

So, what began as a retirement project evolved into Santorini Spoon, a Greek-inspired frozen yogurt shop that has become something of a local sensation.

And after spending time there, I understood why.

Ahmed talked to us for nearly half an hour about ingredients, sourcing, flavors, traditions, and the vision behind the business.

Not because he was selling something. Because he genuinely loved what he was building. There's a difference. You can hear it. You can feel it. You can see it in the way someone lights up when they're talking about their work.

The thing about entrepreneurs like Ahmed is that they understand something many people forget. Food is never just food. It's culture. It's memory. It's connection. It's hospitality. It's a story, served one customer at a time.

You can find places like Santorini Spoon in Greece. You might discover one tucked away in Spain. If you're lucky, you may stumble across something similar in Seattle or New York City

But until now? Not in Cleveland, Tennessee.

Not in a town where most people wouldn't expect to find a beautifully designed Greek-inspired dessert shop serving flavors that feel both adventurous and familiar.

And maybe that's the point. The best businesses don't ask permission to exist. They don't wait for someone to tell them they're in the right zip code. They create something remarkable and trust people to find it.

Then came the olive oil and sea salt frozen Greek yogurt.

Now, I know what some of you are thinking. Those were my thoughts, too. Olive oil? On frozen yogurt? Has everyone lost their minds?

Dearest Gentle Readers, let me save you some time. No. They have not. It was phenomenal. Creamy. Rich. Slightly savory. Unexpected in all the best ways. The kind of flavor that makes you stop talking mid-sentence and reconsider your previous opinions.

The kind that makes you immediately point at your cup and say to your coworker, "You need to try this." The kind that leaves you wondering how you've gone this long without knowing such a thing existed.

That's the thing about traveling through small towns. People often assume the stories live in big cities. They assume innovation happens elsewhere. They assume remarkable things require a remarkable address.

They're wrong.

The best stories are usually hiding in plain sight. They're tucked behind vineyards. They're waiting inside bookstores. They're being built by former caterers who decide retirement sounds boring.

They're being served by people who care deeply about what they do. And they're often found along with being pleasantly surprised and completely unprepared.

So, here's my challenge for you: This week, skip the chain restaurant. Take the back road. Walk into the small business. Talk to the owner. Listen to their story. Order the thing that sounds a little strange. Support the dream somebody poured their heart into building.

Because every thriving small business is a story. And if we don't stop long enough to hear those stories, we lose something far more valuable than a place to shop or eat. We lose the people who make our towns worth remembering.

Now tell me: What's the most unexpectedly wonderful small business you've ever stumbled across? Who knows? We might need to add it to an itinerary soon. ... See MoreSee Less

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