Salt & Osborne

I enjoy the bus to seattle over the drive. Release of control, slow lane, merge, and necessary quiet. Though I feel hormonal acts of weird are totally viable in public, I was displeased with myself at the same time as being at peace with backpack as seat partner, shoe off, and self-massage of cuboid. Iced latte too many dollars, flitting between podcast information upload and one of the only Atwood books I've got left, Wilderness Tips. I was wearing these black coarse polyester major flare high-watered pants, which I thought was fashionably spirited, but turns out Fogon Cocina fajitas bathed in red wine, beer and tequila sauce, guacamole, crema, beans, rice and spicy chile-infused margaritas don't bailar well with polyester flares. Men dressed in little red pleather diddies walked Cap Hill and the little tortilla making nugget perched in her glass case, wearing gloves, but eating her tortas, but making tortas, all made for magic as we waltzed full-bellied back, and on to the Gainsbourg in Greenwood, which was probably the most evocative of conversations we'd share. One of those fond evokes, when the drink, the person, the full, the lighting in the room, and the picture above the guy spending a good deal of time on his caramel drizzle against a pastry for a patron, all of that. Sitting at the bar at the Gainsbourg, the lovely 'tender tasted us on wines till we found one that fit, a bold Malbec. Somehow LB got in conversation with a couple regarding the alien twins in the UK? I was re-inspired by the love of Jane Birkin and Serge, as photographs of their amor hung thematically there and there.

Sunday morning LB got me into her gym to workout while she ran. We drove back to Greenwood to one of her favorites, the Chocolati Cafe, which had endured a natural gas explosion that leveled a building, destroyed a couple haunts and blew out the windows of the Chocolati. Save for boarded windows, the cases were still full in handmade gourmet chocolates and we were served the best wet capp I've ever had. Love this place. There was a robust line of people waiting to shop for a fabric blowout across the street. One at a time would enter, and out they'd come with brocade, chinoiserie, damask and gingham. This particular day was a beautiful one, and in our dried sweat we decided upon the Ballard farmer's market and tour de nw market st.. We stopped into this vintage boutique where I was major vibe'n & inspired by the fabrics, for Germany, for partiez. At the market, the flowers were vivid, dense, the mushrooms sat in their own wrinkled bouquets, spices played in the air, and everyone was a babe dad totin' a toddler, a latte and a relatively trained dog, perched against a street cafe like a model of some kind of living.

Red swung by to take us to a gift of a night; our friends had given us tickets to see Anders Osborne at Neptune, Sunday. The men went for groceries while the babes went thrifting, all of us congregating to a home feast of grilled steak, halibut, bacon-wrapped prawns and asparagus, broiled beets in a goat, arugula & balsamic salad. Sides of white cheeses, champagne toasts and the Big Easy red in further celebration of our impending trip. Foaming at the mouth for New Orleans cuisine, which po' boy to try first, which drink, which breakfast, which brunch, what straw hat, Saints, art, that guy, foaming. This trip both tooth-achingly anticipated and wrought-full in anxiety. Filled to brim in wine and rich salt flavors, the babe, Stacy, drove us to Neptune for cocktails and a real funkfest. Music was great, facial expressions great. Dancing in the dark. Falling asleep on the floor before the early Monday morning commute.