got me thinking I should post an account of my own day:
Early morning wakeup call from neighbor who began, brightly, with “Fooddabbler? Happy Father’s Day … listen, can I borrow your EZ-Pass?” My wife said, sternly, “Don’t you dare get out of bed now. I need more sleep.”
We eventually got out of bed, and “said” wife (don’t know what people mean when they say “said”, but I mean it to say that it’s the same wife I was in bed with) arranged a decadent breakfast on our deck (at noon it was more lunch) with toast, aged prosciutto, melon, paté with a heavy dose of foie gras, and the crucial coffee.
Went to the Harvard Bookstore so that I could pick my present (wife&daughter not into advance planning). Chose Einstein’s weird, occasionally vile, recently-published travel diaries.
Saw American Animals, munching on concession-stand chicken fingers.
Was rebuffed on the way back at a local ice cream shop when I wanted to buy a pint of their rose ice cream (“no pints”) .
Dinner on the same deck where the day had begun, with goan fish curry, lamb curry, and dal from a good local restaurant. It was cool enough by then to sit and watch the sky darken, sipping a rather good zinfandel.
No secrets here. This curry was from “The Maharajah” in Harvard Square. It was not, to be honest, the greatest goan fish curry I’ve had, but it was decent. As with all food, the atmosphere (temperatures dropping, stars emerging, zinfandel coursing through my system) undoubtedly colored the experience.