Another One Down

All Tuesday I kept wondering to myself why I had ever committed to going upstate for New Year’s Eve. I had to work, I was tired all day, I just wanted to go home and collapse. I was actually hoping they’d have snow or freezing rain up north, to give me an excuse to bow out.

I’m glad the weather held. I had a wonderful time. The restaurant/hotel that I had a room booked at and where we ate was quite literally in the middle of nowhere. I had expected little more than a good meal with an old friend. So much for preconceived notions. The room I had was nearly luxurious. It was large, with two king beds, a glass doorway that looked out over the foot of snow still on the ground, and (most important in my mind) a clean, spacious bathroom. I had managed to get lost on my way up, and so was feeling particularly frazzled by the time I dropped my overnight case on the second king bed. I took a nice hot shower, toweled off, laid out my new dress, and threw my robe on and relaxed for an hour. That hour was exactly what I needed to get enough “umph” back to face the evening.

I was a little disappointed in the dress when I put it on. I purchased it several weeks ago, immediately after I’d had the excess fluid in my abdomen drained off. It had fit just a little loosely then, and looked great. Unfortunately, two weeks later, I’ve bloated up a bit again, and the dress pulled just a bit tightly where I didn’t want it to pull. Fortunately, it had a crepe jacket, which I just partly buttoned, disguising the worst of the stretch. The outfit was a blue, green, tan and ivory swirl of crepe, and my mother’s faceted antique amber beads went with it perfectly. I felt like I looked good, which is definitely a novel feeling for me nowadays.

The people at the inn seemed to be looking out for me – making sure I had a seat while I awaited the arrival of my friend and her significant other (by way of an aside: I truly hate the term “significant other” and wish there were a good alternative). When I ordered a virgin sour the waiter nodded knowingly. I realized quickly it was because they thought I was pregnant, but since nobody actually came out and said anything, I didn’t feel the need to set them straight.

But let’s cut to the chase … the food. Ah, the food. It turns out that this little lost-in-the-woods restaurant features what has to be the best chef on this side of the state. My friends, who have been vegetarians for several decades, said their eggplant Parmesan was the best they’d ever had. Since they eat out fairly frequently, that is definitely saying something. I ordered the meat ravioli in marinara sauce, and my only complaint is that I couldn’t make it last longer. It was spicy without being hot, the marinara sauce had a good flavor of tomato without being acidy, and the pasta was of the absolute perfect firmness, neither sticky nor al dente. The salad that came with the meal had the best vinaigrette I’ve ever had – I wish the stuff were available to take home.

And the desserts. Ah, the desserts. My friends got some sort of chocolate torte construction that the chef at another restaurant they like had recommended they try. I got a poached pear, flavored with ginger and cinnamon. Oh. My. God. Had I died then and there, I’d have died happy. My friend’s sig other was so taken by his dessert that he ordered a second dessert: a raspberry tart which he claimed was every bit as good as his first desert.

If the food was an incredible surprise, then the clientele there was a welcome backdrop. It was an older crowd, less bent on being rowdy than on having a good time. Old men did get tipsy, voices were raised in silly banter, and goofy antics did occur (like tying helium balloons to one lady’s feathered boa until there were enough to float the boa off her shoulders and across the table). There was no loud music, nobody throwing up in the corner, no one talking too loudly about how rich or successful he was. It was just good, plain fun.

We left shortly before midnight, and I got back to my room just in time to turn on my television and hear “Three, two, one” as the ball dropped over Time Square. I called The Socialist on the West Coast, wished him happy New Year, and then dropped off to sleep.

Life is good. I’m so glad I wasn’t a kill-joy and went up after all. If that’s how 2003 starts out, how can it help but be anything but wonderful this year?


When I got home Wednesday, the hogs … I mean cats … were overjoyed by my return. I gave them all an extra scoop of food, out of guilt for having abandoned them for the holiday. I was exhausted, and was in bed by 7:30. I woke up this morning to the sound of the Feline Breakfast Serenade at 5:00 am. You’d think the extra scoop would have held them off for a bit longer. Still, I feel good today, and I’m looking forward to my first two-day weekend in a month. Although I bet I end up sleeping half of it away.

I already don’t like this new background I’m using on the diary. It’s too pastel, too wishy-washy. Perhaps this weekend I’ll do something about that.

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5 Comments

  1. I’m glad you had a good time. I’m almost never disapointed when I convince myself to go have a good time instead of hiding under my bridge. Good for you!

  2. nothing like especially good food. my bland diet affords little gastric bliss. however….i did have 2 apple tarts at an italian pastry shop this morning. can’t have food that good too often.

    i’m so glad you had a good time!

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