Too Good

It amazes me how many good people I get to know for god-knows-what reason other than dumb luck or the luck of the dumb. Whatever it is, I wear it about. It quivers around me like that cloud around Pig Pen.

So on Saturday I was treated to dinner at a new friend's place. Too too good. Lord. I mentioned it two entries ago, I believe, and noted that my face hurt from smiling. It did. If you'd heard the stories your face would have hurt too.

(Note: Some of you may be receiving notes from Timmy Wing soon. Please know I have stolen this bit.)

But as I love love love food food food things--send your recipes, good people!--here's the menu:



Beef with a cabernet sauce (butter, flat-leaf parsley, capers, and shallots that made my weak eyes weep as I chopped them but nearly weep with joy as I tasted this sauce). Really good, though I couldn't persuade the chef of this fact. She was determined to put a negative review in my court, but being quite stubborn I'm holding my line. And I'm right in this instance, thank you very much.

I like the plates she filched from her grandmother too.



Asparagus (awesome) and squash with carmelized garlic (awesome).

Oh, damn. There was also a cardamon-orange cake, but I have neglected to upload the photo yet...and I've already consumed the rather large slice I took home. Please know it was intoxicatingly good. The cardamon made me want to get a mortar and pestel. It's like a little apothecary experiment each time one goes to work with it.

In lieu of a cake close-up, I'll give you a photo of Kitty:



Kitty apparently suffers from serious stagefright. So when the cat emerged to use the kitty-litter facilities, we had to freeze in our tracks. My host whispered (through tightened lips, as if aping ventriloquism--CAN one ape ventriloquism?), "Act like we don't see her."

All in all, a grand night. Thanks, friend. And fair warning: I've plotted my menu now.

Bonus Image



I don't know what year this is. Perhaps Christmas 1977. (My brother, off-frame because my mother sent me this copy with the tK cut out--HA!--is, I think, two in this one.) Now, look at that jaunty angle on the red cowboy hat. Look at that plastic rifle holstered in the pocket of my Toughskins. (Toughskins!) And look at that Donny Osmond doll in the other hand. He seems to be holding a microphone to my crotch.

Happy days,
-cK