Are we all just waiting for the election?
Are we holding our breath, holding our water,
awaiting the diagnosis, our sentencing?
Will we rise up and dance in the streets
and kiss our neighbors and tipple champagne
and fermented cider and single-malt Scotch
and cry out in joy and redemption?
Yes. We will.
We went to a wedding reception tonight
where there was a one-armed man (the groom)
and a one-eyed woman (not the bride).
At Januik Winery, in Woodinville.
I found myself critiquing and analyzing every morsel of food:
the roasted asparagus not roasted enough; ditto for the roasted
root vegetables. The risotto was fab, as was the bacon-wrapped pork.
(Imagine that: pork cooked in pork, with pork drippings. )
One of the starters was supposedly a pumpkin soup with a touch
of maple syrup, but it tasted suspiciously like Campbell's Cream of Celery
Soup. (No pumpkin. At all. Suspiciously green.)
The wine flowed and flowed: Sangiovese, Roussanne,
Syrah, Chardonnary (crisp, light on the oak).
A pair of Irish step dancers, an Irish piper.
So enough of this festive hoo ha. It's time for bed.