Saturday, January 14, 2006

She said it's really not my habit to intrude
Furthermore, I hope my meaning won't be lost or misconstrued

But I’ll repeat myself
At the risk of being crude
There must be fifty ways
To leave your lover

Last night was a treat.

I was cruising away on the Nordic Trak and India was doing yoga in the other room, when the phone rang.

It was the chef from the restaurant we had eaten at last weekend.

Around Christmas, he and India were talking about their holiday plans. India said she was going to make pad thai.

He said, "Oh, you know the secret to pad thai? It's _________ and ________."

(Sorry, but for a brief period in the late 70's, I dabbled in magic. Little did I know, the magician's code of secrecy is binding for life.)

India said, "Really?!"

He said, "When I cook it at the restaurant, I will give you a call."

Fast forward a few weeks, and here he is calling us.

We finished the sweaty business of exercising, cleaned up and went down to his restaurant.

I had the soup, an oustanding cream of asparagus with crab. India had their signature salad, and we both had the pad thai.

It was fantastic, and the chef came out personally to see how we were enjoying dinner. Nice touch. When we were finished, the sous chef, whom we also know, came out with some complimentary kafir lime-coconut sorbet. Even nicer touch. Holy shit, was that good.

All we could think of was how much my dad would have loved the whole experience.

When we got home, I took the dogs out for a walk.

I was wrong to think dinner was the sole treat for the evening.

We live on the edge of town, and there are a lot of fields, meadows and open space. (This is Montana, for crying out loud. If there is one thing we have, it is open space.)

It was a full moon, or close to it. The sky was clear, except for long, wispy clouds that moved across the sky.

The moon reflected off of the snow, making the night an eerie, bright white-blue. I could clearly see all the local mountain ranges- the Bridgers, the Spanish Peaks, and the Tobacco Root Mountains, which are 55 miles away (!).

The beauty was difficult to describe, and it was almost intoxicating. Seriously. The dogs were trotting around like they were 10 years younger, and the bright night invigorated me. It was a heady feeling. Trippy. But very, very good.

It is too bad that I couldn't take a picture for you, as my words are inadequate; however, I am not much of a photographer. My previous attempts at night photography have failed miserably.

I wish you all could have been here. For the entire evening.

Some of you would have returned home, quit your jobs and packed your bags.


Today has a few more down-to-earth things on the agenda. More exercise, some cleaning, installing some drawer pulls, then a jam session with Bells. We're working on "Staple it Together," by Jack Johnson. It is pretty simple, so we will probably get our groove on with it.


-Carp, if you're reading this, it was wonderful to talk with you again yesterday. We're looking forward to seeing you.

-Quagmire... thanks for the compiment. You made me blush, you saucy tart.

-Liz... hang in there. Everything happens for a reason, and I know things will work out for you.


Sunday, and Monday, I intend to honor Martin Luther King Day, and celebrate the vast racial and ethnic diversity of Montana by heading to the melting pot of Big Sky.

I will lay 500 to 1 that I do not lay eyes on a "person of color."

If there is anything "whiter" than Montana, it is a ski resort in Montana. Well, maybe a ski resort in Idaho might be whiter.

OK, this is devolving quickly.

Peace out.