Going to the dogs
Well, we’re here. Started too early, but that’s life. The flight was easy, a short layover in Dallas to change planes and about 2 more hours to Orlando. SR has been telling Gail since Thursday that she was already waiting at the airport, so she had no problem finding us. The luggage came off the belt faster than ever, and off to the downtown condo we tootled.
Susan and Karl are wine snobs. We had dinner tonight with their wine snob friend, Tim, and spent much time discussing how well some bottle of fermented grape juice had “opened up”, how this one had a “very light nose” and that one had “excellent structure”. My diet coke was just fine, if perhaps a trifle impertinent.
But they drink red wine. Rich, dark, mouth-puckering red wine. Gail drinks white, and we were in for a tremendous surprise when SR opened the cupboard to get Gail a glass—not just the glass but the wine lives in the cabinet, in a bright yellow box that looks like it should hold corn starch. Is this what passes for wine snobbery here in the land of the pink plaid bermuda shorts?
SR was dressed in her official “530 on the 18th” chef’s coat:
The wine may be from the wrong side of the tracks (and it may not–screw tops are now acceptable for fine wine, why not paper boxes?), but the dinner was first rate.
Prime rib of beef, baked potato and Yorkshire Pudding, preceded by a pear salad. Tim, who is a big shot banker in real life, is a baker in his dreams, and he brought a loaf of home made ciabatta that was superb. The only thing this Orlando feast needed was our friend Frances, and I hope we’ll see her before the week is out.
Sunday we are off on an adventure–no grass growing under anyone’s feet around here. We’re going out on a fishing boat, which is slightly odd since none of us is a fisherman, but if you’re in Florida, do as the Floridians and it was either that or stay home and watch the incessant political ads on TV, and the ads smell worse than the fishing boat.