Thank you, Candice, for your support. Before I address Suburban Correspondent's unprovoked attack, I must agree with her about the garlic sauce. Unbelievable. It was a masterly melding of the garlic and yogurt into a beautiful marriage of flavors -- not a marriage of convenience, mind you, but of unbridled passion -- juxtaposed with a whipped texture that filled the condiment cup like delightful, garlicky giggles. Oh, that the flavor could linger as long as the memories.
As for the mall: we found the mall. We just couldn't find the restaurant. The fact that we made it at all is a testament to Human Will. And we more than made up for our tardiness with our sparkling conversation.
I must attest to the truth of her last statement, which would be obvious to anyone reading her comment. Whereas the great majority of us wield the English language as a blunt axe, chopping out random phrases in an attempt to communicate a faint semblance of what we are thinking or feeling, Carol uses words as an accomplished surgeon might use his favorite scalpel. And often the results can be just as cutting. "I would have hated you in high school," she told me at dinner. "You were one of those short girls."
"Are you sure she's your friend?" Larry asked me later.
Who cares? I'm a fool for anyone with a finely-turned phrase. "Masterly melding...unbridled passion...garlicky giggles..." indeed!
The world is all the poorer for this woman's not having a blog. Alas, she steadfastly refuses to keep one; she maintains that she has nothing to say. [None of us do, Carol; but does that stop us? I think not.] She belongs, I believe, to a different era, perhaps to a Jane Austen novel, where heroines drop archly witty bon mots whilst admiring suitors look on. She's Elizabeth Bennett, if you will, but with a Kindle instead of a spinet.
And, Carol? In high school, I was violently jealous of you long-legged coltish creatures who intimidated the boys by (literally) looking down at them and who weren't pulled off-balance by an over-endowment in the chest area. Oh, that I could have sailed through my teen years with age-appropriate clothes from the (too-large) juniors sizes and the assurance that no one (including those mean boys) would even think of calling me Punky Brewster...
The grass, my dear, is always greener...
[Photo credit: A Belle Abroad]
[Photo credit: Sweet Girl Sugar]
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