Laramoops, pleasure of pleasures, star in our spirally firmament: all hail (snow, sleet, rain, mist, fog)! Who asked, "What would you like for dinner at our house? Greg wants to cook." Answered: Love pasta. And meatballs. Comfort food, comfort me! Come for me tonight! Bring a ladder and those heels I love!
If...we...were...all...still cave men and women, Greggie would be that one, the guy (gal, wh'ev), WHO[m] (or "that," in the ungrammatically-inclined vernacula [rhymes with dracula]) the entire tribe (99%, but for the guy I know with tongue cancer) hoped would be [past indefinite participle to the moon] cooking in rotation that night. (Assuming cave people lived in a socialist utopia where chores were equally shared. I think I learned that somewhere.)
Ah. Sweet. Looking up wines on Greg's iPhone. About to sit down at a Herman Miller Aero S. table in their "worth being considered a destination" house: see great furniture; appreciate (there COULD be a quiz; Greg teaches university-level architecture) terrific design surprises; a gourmet galley; the house motto has something to do with cocktails.
I just came across your blog today. It’s absolutely lovely and I can’t wait to visit more
Posted by: Hampers | February 28, 2010 at 01:53 AM