![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
It's Andrea's birthday today! Sing ho for the life of a bear couples therapist!
Because we were shoe-gravel broke coming into the day, she opted for not doing anything special, while I gave her the Inexpensive Thing She Really Wanted by cleaning the apartment while she was at work. But then we got our state stimulus check, and doing nothing for your birthday is still as stupid as you remember it, so off to Noble Kitchen for dinner we went. For her: some transcendent vichyssoise, followed by seared scallops with sweet potato purée, followed by lemon tart with blood orange gelée and an espresso martini on the side. For me: confit pork belly, followed by sesame glazed salmon over red quinoa, followed by...well, by genius in a jar, frankly. It's the only upscale s'more I've seen to truly step above. The flavors are all there that you'd expect—chocolate mousse, graham cracker crumble, a soft brûléed marshmallow topping, all impeccable, nothing surprising, But there's one thing that's almost always missing, and they provide it by serving the thing in a small canning jar sealed with a spring lid, and underneath the lid they've trapped a puff of honest-to-blog woodsmoke, so when you open the jar the first thing you get is that smell that's as close to your tender soul as a hand-knit afghan, and it slides through those old and dear flavors until you find yourself years younger and not quite in the same place you left. Yes, I have died. My ghost is dictating this post. Worth it.
So yeah, between that and the fact that Wednesday is strength training day at the gym (so named by folks with a penchant for cruel irony), it feels hours past my bedtime even though the clock insists it's a quarter past nine. Gonna go hold down a pillow with my face for a while. G'night, comrades.
Because we were shoe-gravel broke coming into the day, she opted for not doing anything special, while I gave her the Inexpensive Thing She Really Wanted by cleaning the apartment while she was at work. But then we got our state stimulus check, and doing nothing for your birthday is still as stupid as you remember it, so off to Noble Kitchen for dinner we went. For her: some transcendent vichyssoise, followed by seared scallops with sweet potato purée, followed by lemon tart with blood orange gelée and an espresso martini on the side. For me: confit pork belly, followed by sesame glazed salmon over red quinoa, followed by...well, by genius in a jar, frankly. It's the only upscale s'more I've seen to truly step above. The flavors are all there that you'd expect—chocolate mousse, graham cracker crumble, a soft brûléed marshmallow topping, all impeccable, nothing surprising, But there's one thing that's almost always missing, and they provide it by serving the thing in a small canning jar sealed with a spring lid, and underneath the lid they've trapped a puff of honest-to-blog woodsmoke, so when you open the jar the first thing you get is that smell that's as close to your tender soul as a hand-knit afghan, and it slides through those old and dear flavors until you find yourself years younger and not quite in the same place you left. Yes, I have died. My ghost is dictating this post. Worth it.
So yeah, between that and the fact that Wednesday is strength training day at the gym (so named by folks with a penchant for cruel irony), it feels hours past my bedtime even though the clock insists it's a quarter past nine. Gonna go hold down a pillow with my face for a while. G'night, comrades.
