Coconut Cream Pie

I just ate the best coconut cream pie in the universe. I hope I never forget anything about the way the flaky crust crumbled under my fork, the oversized shavings of coconut rolled on my tongue, the fluffy cream filled my mouth from teeth to tonsils. The drizzle of caramel, the sprig of mint.

I want to remember bursting into giggles at the first bite while looking at Marty, who sacrificed this delectable dessert to me in exchange for my similarly divine chocolate souffle. I want to remember Lachlan offering me a spoonful of his pudding as an accompaniment to my little slice of heaven. Alastair rubbing his belly in contented circles, with his lizard basking in the sun expression plastered all over his face. The small dance I did in my chair as the bliss of my tastebuds finally penetrated my brain. Not to downplay the tastiness of the first course or the main, but that coconut cream pie was pure delight.

Scaramouche is a pretentious restaurant, of that there can be no doubt. We four definitely got “the eye” when we showed up in our jeans and ratty sweaters: Lachlan all perched precariously on his crutches, Marty with his gimpy knee and piercings, me with my grotesque cold sore and Alastair… well, he was looking pretty fine, actually. But hairy eyeballs aside, the food was exceptional, the conversation hilarious, the flawlessly ripened tomatoes the stuff of legends. On top of all this we got a geography/history lesson about the making of our loose leaf tea from the fantastic Polish waiter, Max, to boot.

I will sleep tonight, and dream of that pie. I can’t wait for my head to hit the pillow.

Tattoo Monkeys

Alastair asked me to draw him some black & white graphics of sainted monkeys sporting halos as groundwork for a possible tattoo, based on his firm belief that Aztec monkey gods are looking out for him. This was an exciting proposal, except for the fact that any drawing skill I may have had as a child has withered and died from lack of use over the past decade. But who am I to deny a friend? Especially a friend who helps me carry my heavy laundry, and isn’t afraid to take me out to dine in public when I have a hideous, disfiguring cold sore. So I hunkered down to my sketch pad, shook the cobwebs off of my Faber Castells, and flexed my atrophied hand muscles until the fine motor skills started to come back. Here are the questionable results:

This afternoon I’m going out to see Amadeus with my boss, Lorne, who had an extra ticket handy. And then tomorrow is apple picking! Woo hoo! At the last minute, Edward and Darren had to cancel, which makes me sad. In their place, keeping the numbers at an even twenty, we have two interesting new additions to our (literal) field trip. Marty, one of Alastair’s oldest friends from Ottawa and all-round cool guy, and Chris, Best Man at the wedding from this past weekend, who is bringing his Little Brother, as in ‘Big Brothers’ (although his actual little brother will be there too, new bride in tow).

Just another action-packed weekend. Making a concerted effort to ensure this time gets a spotless bill of decency and wholesomeness, to even things out from last week. Self-destructive behaviour is bad form. Attempting to cut it right out.