Pointing Fingers

Tom will absolutely kill me for posting this picture but I think it’s a classic. (So maybe I won’t send him the link?) It was taken on a walk at low tide at Birch Bay during one of the only vacations we’ve enjoyed in the recent. We blame Alane, Phil and Carrie for the relaxation opportunity, as they gave me the Semiahmoo Resort gift certificate for my birthday — thank you, family, we needed that!

Transition

It’s happened. On this sunny spring morning, I leaped out of bed, put on my slippers and padded to the kitchen for a cup of coffee in the bunny cup. I didn’t notice until many minutes had passed that I had on two different sides even though they don’t feel the same. Uh-oh ... I think I’m on the path to true absent-mindedness. At least I have on comfortable shoes.

Aglow at 50

I’ve known Ms. Monica since she was 19 years old and looking at this picture, you’d think that was just a few short years ago. But no, she follows me in becoming 50, making the five-decade mark simply fabulous. For her hallmark birthday, 10 of us reveled in champagne and cruised in a limo, hitting Seattle hot spots for a progressive evening of apps (List), dinner (Barolo) and dessert (Cicchetti), a celebration fit for a queen. Even the finicky Mr. T loved Barolo, so we’ll be back. Happy 5-0, Ms. Mo!

Just Browsing

First parking tickets, then jaywalking citations and now this. The city continues to generate revenue in ingenious ways. However, I’m relieved to see that I can sleep in until 7:00.

Unintentional Stardom

When friends Jay and Kyoko touch down from Kyoto, our little lives suddenly open up — they take us to international destinations, even within our own Seattle city limits. Usually, Mr. T and I spend our evenings at home or working at Momo. In the company of J + K, we find ourselves dining in friendly neighborhood Italian restos and tapping our toes to African drum beats. Tonight, we were transported to Mali. In the safety of my seat in Dimitrou’s Jazz Alley, I found myself swaying to Habib Koité and Bamada, hitherto unheard of by me or my musically worldly hub. After a few songs and glasses of wine, Carol the Travel Agent pulled Kyoko and me up to the side of the stage to unabashedly undulate among other female fans. Woo hoo! Before you know it, Carol is on stage — way to go, girl! And yet another woman is up there dancing ... and then, oh no! The cute and mesmerizing percussionist, Mahamadou Koné is beckoning me. Who me? No, no, no, yes! It was the most agonizing, embarrassing and exhilarating 60 seconds of my life, writhing on that platform in my purple tights. Afterward, numerous people congratulated me on my African dancing technique. Thank you, Jazzercise.

Swede Deal

Hearty is how I’d describe the pancake breakfast held every first Sunday from 8:30-1:30 at the Swedish Cultural Center (1920 Dexter Avenue North; 206.283.1090). Hearty, as in the generous portion of slightly chewy, eggy flavored crepe-like pancakes, sided with ham and topped with lingonberries or strawberries (or both) and a big dollop of hand-whipped cream. Hearty, as in the robust women zealously pumping their accordions so enthusiastic dining dancers could twirl about the floor. And hearty, as in the feeling of Swedish pride and passion that filled the sunlit room on a happy Easter Sunday. Coffee, juice and seconds — if you can — are included, all for $8.

Second Cup

I’ve come to accept that coffee means something different to me than it does to Tom. That first cup is not just something to drink with breakfast, it’s a way of greeting the morning with a quiet re-entry, a gentle jolt of energy to get me started, and warm companion to keep me company as I get ready. I remember when I was growing up, Mommy used to make a big pot and drink it throughout her day, absent-mindedly leaving behind a trail of cooling, half-sipped mugs as she went about her chores.

Happy to Serve You

In all fairness to Tom, he spends a lot of time in the kitchen washing dishes. His morning ritual consists of tidying vestiges of the day before, including rinsing and wiping dry my orange bunny cup and filling it with steaming coffee. He presents it to me like a warm offering, setting it down on the vanity in the bathroom while I get ready for the day.

Logic

I love Tom. And sometimes his thinking escapes me. Like the other day I was washing dishes and spotted this kitchen sculpture he built at the side of the sink — Ittala glass stacked with a rice cooker pot, crowned with a sieve. When I queried him, his sensible answer was that he needed to get things out of the way and that everything on top of the (expensive) glass was very lightweight.