Good lord, they were icy cold, salty and perfect.
That's what good food does, I think.
My main course was Mediterranean mussels and clams with little bricks of buttery, spicy toast.
Good lord, it was hearty:
Henry ordered fried clams. He said that they were perfect.
Good lord, they were:
I had a slice of peach pie for dessert, blew out a candle after making a wish, and laughed uproariously because D kept teasing me about my encroaching age-related daffiness. The sentence I need a birthday candle plate, pronto!, yelled in my old waiter voice will become part of D's and my stored collection of mutual mockery until the day we drop dead with no pain whatsoever.
Good lord, I hope my wish comes true:
We drove home in a seafood haze, blasting Eva Cassidy singing Lennon's Imagine (and you must listen to that if you want to feel like the troubles of the world have disappeared and what is left is warm and hysterically funny and fifty years are ahead of you, the same, light, wistful, filled up) as the golden light of Los Angeles softened into the sultry air.
Good lord, I'm blessed.
Thank you, D.
P.S. I'm still shopping around for tattoo artists, so nothing to show you, yet!