MOUSE UPDATE

I had the landlord seal up the suspected point of entry, a hole behind the stove where the gas line comes in, and haven't seen any mice or evidence thereof in a week.

HOORAY!

Build a Better Mouse Trap...

I'm not as gay as I used to be. Dancing shirtless into the wee hours of the night is not a regular part of my life anymore. I haven't donned a costume for Halloween, one of the gay high holidays, in years. But I still scream like a girl when I see a mouse.

My reaction is way more than just a knee-jerk, "eeek!" Having a mouse in my house brings me lots of negative feelings. It makes me feel poor. It makes me feel dirty (not in a good way.) And worst of all, it makes me feel like I have lost control of my home.

I am a human. It is a mouse. It should not be able to enter my domain. It should not be able to take a nightly poo on my kitchen counter. I am an advanced being with vast technology on my side. Who does this mouse think he is?

Old-fashioned mouse traps, the wooden kind with a heavy spring hinge and metal bar, have always scared me. Almost as much as mice. The mechanism is so precariously held in place. It takes a steady hand to set one of those things, and my hand's about as steady as Michael J. Fox's.

So when Jess and I decided to take action against our rodent, we sought alternative traps. First we tried glue traps. Then we tried poison. We tried those new-fangled, easy-set traps--the ones that are plastic and resemble the clips that you use to fasten potato chip bags closed. None of these worked.

So, in desperation, we have resorted to the old-fashioned, wooden, finger-destroying traps of yesteryear. These traps have been modernized in a very small way. The little platform where you used to put the bait has been replaced with a bright yellow piece of plastic meant to look like Swiss cheese. The packaging says the traps "never need baiting." Whereas Jess never reads the instructions to anything he purchases, I always do. (Even for our friggin' toaster oven! How sick is that?) So I insisted we set the traps without bait. We've done that for several nights, and it has not worked.

Last night, I was in bed and asleep long before Jess. I was too sleepy to wonder what was keeping Jess up. He finally came to bed, and woke me up long enough to have a conversation about whether there are rats this far from the city, and whether they could get into our apartment. Nice! Thanks for waking me up for that!

So, I wake up this morning, insanely early, and stumble into the kitchen. On the counter I see that Jess has repositioned and set the wooden trap. I see that Jess has put a small dollop of peanut butter on the faux cheese. And right next to the trap, which has not been tripped, I see a small mouse turd brazenly placed no more than an inch away from the baited trap.

I can't help but wonder which of us, the human or the mouse, is the advanced being?

There's a Tear in My Champagne

If you know my partner Jess, you know that he gets a little weepy. Ok, a lot weepy. He's been known to shed a tear when watching The Golden Girls. Freakish, I know, but it just makes me love him more. I guess this trait is not necessarily endearing to everyone else. This past Saturday, during a "drunk dialing" episode, a dear friend put it all in perspective.

It had been a spectacular day. It was sunny and warm so we spent the afternoon lying on the beach. When we'd had our fill of sand and surf, we headed back home. After a quick shower, we popped open a lovely bottle of Champagne. When the bubbly was gone, we decided to head over to Tea Dance. That's when reality started to sink in.

It was dead. The enormous bay-side deck that had been teeming with people only a week ago was almost empty. There was a total lack of what our friend Darryl calls "talent" (hot men.) The bars out on the deck were boarded up and our favorite bartenders were nowhere to be found. Summer was over, despite what the calendar might say. Even though we have our place until September 30th, Provincetown feels a little sad after Labor Day. We have no more extended stays or even long weekends scheduled.

We decided to cut our losses and find a place to have dinner. We went to our favorite restaurant, Front Street, without a reservation. Cindy, the hostess, has seen us a lot this Summer and is very good to us. She gives us a table whose party is 8 minutes late. We drown our sorrows in two-and-a-half bottles of wine, appetizers, salads and entrees. We were too engorged to have dessert, so we staggered home.

Back home, Jess gets the phone and starts dialing everyone he knows. The only person foolish/kind enough to take his call is our friend, Danny, who lives in New York. He works weekends and had just gotten out for a late dinner with some friends. Jess starts to relay his sad story of how the Summer is over, no one is left in P-town, blah blah blah. Danny listens attentively for several minutes, then laughs and says, "You're both such spoiled bitches! I love you though. Gotta go. Talk to you later." Click.

He was right of course. We're so friggin' lucky. Not just because of the things we have, but because we have friends who will give us a reality check when we need one.

This Goes Out to All the Breeders

Admit it. Stereotypes really come in handy sometimes. There's nothing like a sweeping generalization to make a long story short.

Whether we admit it or not, we like being labeled. It's comfortable. Perhaps that is why the gays have created such a prolific and nuanced list of names for the different sub-groups within our species. The terminology can be confusing for a breeder. So I offer a primer in contemporary gay nomenclature.

Turn-Ons

bot·tom (bŏt'əm) likes it in the butt

top (tŏp) likes to put it in someone else's butt

ver·sa·tile (vûr'sə-təl, -tīl') likes it in his butt and likes to put it in someone else's butt

size¹ (sīz) queen (kwēn) A gay male who is exclusively interested in men with very large penises (girth and length are required); usually a bottom

rice (rīs) queen (kwēn) A white gay male who exclusively dates Asian men

Body Type

bear (bâr) A big, fat, hairy gay male; one is usually only referred to as a bear if he self identifies as such; otherwise he is just big, fat and hairy.

wolf (wʊlf) A gay male with moderate to heavy body hair with an average, or better, body build

seal (sēl) A gay male with little-to-no body hair, typically young with an above-average body

Age

dad·dy (dăd'ē)

1. A gay man who is middle-aged or older and sexually attractive
2. An older gay man who is in a relationship with a younger man
3. A wealthy, older gay man who is in a relationship with a younger man for whom the relationship provides the primary source of financial resources
   

twink A young or young-looking male homosexual

chick·en (chĭk'ən) A young male homosexual

chick·en (chĭk'ən) hawk (hôk) An older gay man who preys on "chickens"

poo·dle (pūd'l) A young, thin, emaculately groomed, urban gay male; sometimes used as a derogatory term, indicating the person is bitchy and shallow

"Partying"

cir·cuit (sûr'kĭt) boy (boi) A gay male who attends circuit parties or otherwise engages in clubbing or night-life; usually in their thirties, attractive and muscular; usually high as a kite

cir·cuit (sûr'kĭt) rai·sin (rā'zĭn) A shriveled, overly-tan gay man who should have stopped partying many years ago

Lesbians

lip·stick (lĭp'stĭk') les·bi·an (lĕz'bē-ən) A homosexual woman whose physical appearance (manner of dress, hairstyle, etc.) is much like that of a heterosexual woman

ba·by (bā'bē) dyke (dīk) A young lesbian who is newly "out" and going through a postponed adolescence that is characterized by loud, obnoxious behavior such as binge drinking and fist fighting


die·sel (dē'zəl, -səl) dyke (dīk) Especially rough and rugged lesbians; their prefered weapons are tire irons and wrenches

Hee-Haw dyke (dīk) A lesbian characterized by a manner of dress and behavior similar to that of a young, rural, heterosexual male

REALLY Alternative Lifestyles

drag (drăg) queen (kwēn) A gay male entertainer or performer who dresses as a woman, usually in a campy, over-the-top manner

cross (krôs, krŏs) -dress·er (drĕs'ər) Any person, male or female, gay or straight, who dresses as a member of the opposite sex

tran·ny (trăn' nee) Any person in any stage of gender reassignment; can be broadly grouped into either "Pre-Op" or "Post-Op" categories

Blow Hole Patrol

On Saturday, we went out on the boat again with Jess' parents. We had every intention of fishing for tuna, but never got around to it. We stopped to watch some whales along the way, and the whales just never went away or stopped surfacing. The sea was literally teeming with humpback, fin and minke whales. At any given moment, you could turn around and see at least one whale, usually three or more. There were spouts coming up from their blow holes in every direction. It was crazy, and it was like this for well over an hour, probably two.

Another weird thing, the whales were incredibly close to the shore--less than half a mile from the beach at times. Usually when we see whales, there's no land in sight. I've been fortunate to see lots of whales on lots of occasions. I've definitely been closer and I've definitely seen more spectacular displays (breaching and so forth.) But no one on the boat has ever seen this many whales at once.

The video doesn't begin to capture what it was like. For one thing, there are only three there. (Actually there were more to my right, but the whale flapping the surface of the water was the one putting on the best show.) Be warned, the footage is wicked shaky. You may need a dramamine.

Top Ten Things to Do in Provincetown When it Rains

1. Get a Brazilian bikini wax
2. Eat! Eat! Eat!
   
3. Shopping--you can never have enough spandex and Lycra
4. Work on that drinking problem you've been neglecting lately
5. "Massage while you're in town?"
6. Show Tune Karaoke
7. Masturbate
8. Get temporary henna tattoo with the name of last night's trick.
9. Try to ascertain the name of last night's trick.
10. Watch daytime talk shows; question the meaning of life and fall into an existential depression.
    

International Glamor Puss

My partner/boyfriend Jess is infatuated with a drag queen named Hedda Lettuce. She bills herself as a "Drag Comedienne and International Glamor Puss." Jess became acquainted with her last year. Most evenings, she could be found in front of the Provincetown Art House Theater, plugging her show. Fridays when I was taking the fast ferry from Boston to Provincetown, Jess would always walk down to the pier to greet me, as if I were coming home from a tour in Iraq or something. This Art House, and I use the term very loosely, is halfway between our place and the pier. So, Jess had occasion to walk past Miss Lettuce, sans boyfriend, on a regular basis.

I'm not exactly sure what transpired between the two of them every Friday night before my arrival. But on the return trip from the pier to the apartment, Ms. Lettuce would definitely pay Jess special attention as we walked by. Batting her eyelashes, she would call out, "Hey big boy," or "How's it hangin', stud?" Having your partner/boyfriend pursued by a drag queen is the definition of not feeling threatened. I found their flirtation amusing and sweet, so I didn't mind that Jess always made us walk by on Hedda's side of the street.

As the season drew to a close, so did Hedda's run at the Art House. Walking by, on the last weekend of her show, Hedda dropped out of character and seemed legitimately concerned, "Are you ever coming to see me?!" Jess promised that we would be in the audience on Sunday night, her very last show.

But alas, on Sunday night our bloodstream was full of alcohol and our bellies full of food. We fell asleep on the couch. Actually, I fell asleep on the couch. Try as he might, Jess couldn't rouse me from my drunken slumber. As a testimate to his undying love for me, Jess remained by my side. He never made it to Hedda's show.

Jess was very much looking forward to seeing Ms. Lettuce this season. She wasn't scheduled to appear in P-town until the week of the 4th of July. That week rolled around, and her shows were mysteriously missing from the theater's schedule. Jess was gravely concerned, convinced that Hedda had fallen into a deep depression after he betrayed her. Hedda has since been re-booked, with a very limited number of performances. This was supposed to be her opening weekend, but we did not see Ms. Lettuce on our walk from the pier.

Maybe Jess was right. Maybe she is broken-hearted.

Shark Update

I didn't have my camera the day Chuck and Jeanne took Jess and me fishing, but they had theirs. I snapped a couple of photos. Got a picture of the shark that Jeanne caught, but not the one I caught. Also, no pix of me since I was behind the camera.

Damn I'm Sexy!

Here is a great picture of Jess and me with our dear friends, Danny and David. They were visiting Provincetown the week of July 4th. July 5th is Danny's birthday. This picture was taken on the porch of The Red Inn. We are waiting to be seated for dinner.

Something Smells Fishy

Two Days after taking Jess and me on a fishing excursion, Chuck caught this tuna...

He's sending tuna steaks our way for dinner tonight. Mmmmmm!

18 Inches Made Me Scream Like a School Girl!

I'm so mad at myself. I forgot to take my camera yesterday when Jess' parents took us out on their boat. As always, we had a great time. For someone who is terrified of natural bodies of water (i.e., any water that can sustain a life form) I LOVE being out in the middle of Cape Cod Bay.

Chuck and Jeanne called around 9AM to let us know they'd be at the pier around 11AM. Jess and I grabbed lunch for the four of us--yummy sandwiches, chips and cookies from the nearby General Store. Chuck and Jeanne already had plenty of wine and beer chilling on ice. We put on our swim trunks, grabbed sweatshirts, and headed to the pier (a five-minute walk from our place.) The boat was sitting idle in the harbor waiting for us. When we arrive Chuck pulls up to the "Courtesy Landing," a small, public dock where boats can tie-up briefly to load and unload passengers. We climb aboard and are greeted by Oliver, their 10 month old French Bulldog, clad in an orange doggie life vest. (Very cute!) We decide to eat lunch right away, even though it is early. We're going to fish and want to eat before handling the bait. Chuck takes the boat out to Long Point, drops anchor, and we have our sandwiches with a nice Sauvignon Blanc. When we're done eating, Chuck points the boat toward the open sea and heads for a certain spot that is known for excellent cod fishing. The spot is the sight of an old shipwreck, which you can see on the sonar. (Pretty cool!) When you find the ship's wreckage, you cut the engines and cast your lines.

I've gone fishing for tuna and bluefish with Jess' folks, but never for cod. Tuna and bluefish are big and powerful and put up a good fight. You cast and start reeling almost immediately since these fish chase their prey toward the surface. With cod, you let your bait sink to the bottom (100 feet below, where we were) then slowly pull-then-reel, pull-then-reel until you either catch something or your bait is back on the surface. Chuck graciously put bait on my line. Wimpy, I know. But in my defense,this is not like putting a worm on a hook. The thing we were using looked like a mobile you would hang over a baby's crib, except this mobile had numerous three-pronged hooks festooned with oysters. I lowered this contraption into the water, waited for it to hit bottom, locked the line and started the pull-reel cycle.

I had only done the pull-reel thing three times when I felt a heaviness on the line. I wasn't sure if I had anything, so I kept quiet for bit. Pull-then-reel. Pull-then-reel. Finally I'm convinced that there's a fish at the end of my line, so I ask for a second opinion. "Oh yeah, you've got something!" Pull-then-reel. Pull-then-reel. Whatever this is, it isn't putting up a fight. I'm doubtful I have anything more than seaweed. Pull-then-reel. Pull-then-reel. I stop looking at the water and focus on the end of my pole (huh huh.) It's not bent toward the water very much. Could I possibly have anything?

I'm still looking at the end of the pole when Chuck says, "You've got it!" I look down toward the water just as I yank the fish up and out. The first thing I notice are teeth. Lots of them. I didn't know cod looked like this. I takes me about a second to identify the thing I am eagerly pulling toward myself as a shark. "FUCK!" I shrieked. I lower the end of the pole back toward the water, barely resisting the urge to simply drop the whole rod and reel into 100-feet of saltwater. The whole boat erupts into laughter. It was a shark alright--about a foot and a half long. Not exactly a man-eater. Chuck once again comes to my aid and cuts the thing off the line and releases it. Time for another beer!

We saw lots of other marine life during our six hours on the water. There were several Humpback Whales that were ENORMOUS. There was a rather large seal. And I saw a huge but harmless Nurse Shark gliding along the top of the water. But it was an 18-inch shark that nearly made me shit my pants.

Thanks to blogging, I can annoy you even while I'm away on vacation.

My first day of vacation started gray and cool. Still, Provincetown is a beautiful place. I got up insanely early, drank some coffee, hopped on my bike, grabbed a muffin and rode out to the end of MacMillan Wharf. I enjoyed my muffin, and then took some photos. I was feeling artsy...

See what I mean? Gray.

I dont know the history behind these portraits, but I have always loved them. The women are old and weathered, yet beautiful.

COCK!
These are painted on the concrete surface of the pier. I've never noticed them before, and I don't know what they are all about.

The Pilgrim Monument, as seen from MacMillan Wharf. I guess the pilgrims landed in Provincetown before making it to Plymouth Rock. This is supposed to be a monument to them. But insiders know this story was concocted by the Gay Mafia to conceal the fact that they had built an enormous phallus with taxpayer dollars.

As Promised Threatened...

Here's video of our place in P-town.



ps: My videos look great as the mpeg's that download from my camera, but when I convert them to divx/avi for YouTube, they turn into crap. Any suggestions?

God Loves Me. Either That, or I’m Just a Complete F#cking Idiot.

So I found my camera. I’m embarrassed to say that it was in my backpack that I carry with me everywhere I go. Of course, I thought I had searched it thoroughly. But there is a padded, hidden compartment meant for laptops that I had completely forgotten about. I had even “frisked” the bag, in case I just wasn’t seeing it. I didn’t feel it in there. {insert gay ass-sex joke here}

If you are foolish enough to return to this blog, you will be subjected to videos and pictures. It may not be pretty. I just hope it’s not boring…

I Love a Good Pork!

Last night Jess and I attended a birthday dinner for our friend Steve. Steve is an adventurous gastronome and had recently expressed his desire to attend a traditional Chinese "wedding banquet." This is a big, family-style meal that is organized not just for weddings, but for any special occasion where family and friends gather to dine and celebrate.

Steve doesn't know a lot of Chinese people who are getting married, so his wife Kira arranged last night's dinner at China Pearl in Woburn, MA. Jess and I were almost the first to arrive. Jason had arrived before us, but was so skeptical he was at the right restaurant, was backing out of his parking space when we saw each other. "Are we sure this is the right place?" he asked. The parking lot was virtually empty, and the sign on the side of the restaurant read "Ch na ". (No "i". No "Pearl".)

We chatted with Jason for a minute and of course headed straight to the bar. "This place does have a bar, right?" A sweet but potent Mai Thai eased our concerns while Jason went back outside for some fresh air. The rest of the party arrived shortly thereafter (except for our friend Matt whose punctuality is legendary) and the banquet began.

The first wave of appetizers arrived. A platter of pork, chicken, duck, and beef. "It looks like head cheese," Jason said of the "beef."

Jess struggled with a mouthful, "It looks like what?"

"Like it was sewn together," Jason elaborated.

Jess politely swallowed (not the first time he's done that) and switched to the pork.

Where the F#@k did I put the camera?

I'm very distraught. Jess and I got a new digital camera for Christmas. (Thanks Jeanne and Chuck!) I used it to shoot the video of me cooking rabbit. Not great video, but sufficient and it took great pictures! I don't know how, but I've lost it. I Can't remember even taking it out of the house--and I tore the house apart looking for it. I wanted to take pictures/video for all to see of our place in Provincetown. I think I must replace it. I'll post about P-town soon.

If you've seen a HP Photosmart anywhere, give me a yell.

The Easter Bunny is DEAD!

Anatomy of the Spring Hare


and how to cook him...

Sleeping with the Enema

Jess and I have a rule. We call it "Die in Car Crash/Die in Sleep". Basically, it means we don't part company or go to sleep angry with one another. 'Cause who knows when one of us might get hit by a city bus or choke in the night on our vomit? (Choking on someone else's vomit, while possible, is not likely to happen in one's sleep.)

Did we break our rule last night? Jess got home around 7:30, about twelve hours after he left for work. His nourishment for the day had been a six-ounce can of V-8. I began to prepare dinner, which was improvisational to say the least. I wasn't sure exactly what I was doing with the ingredients on hand. I began a series of starts and stops. Do I grill the beef or saute it? Corn or flour tortillas? I was twitching like an epileptic under a strobe light.

Jess' blood sugar must have been lower than my blood alcohol content was high. He lit gas burners underneath empty pots and pans and flailed his arms about wildly. With my typical degree of composure, I screeched "Wait a minute!" Jess said "Fine!" and stormed off. I continued making dinner which was excellent, I must say. But I didn't say anything and he didn't say anything.

Jess cleared our plates and I stayed seated. He sat down at the computer to do some work or perhaps cruise around on Manhunt.com. I fell asleep on the couch. Jess cleaned the kitchen, and sometime after 10:00, roused me from the couch to get into bed. Not another word was said.

But I don't think this was a violation of our rule. We know each other so well by now. Jess needs to be silent when he gets mad. And over the years (seven of them), I have learned to repress my innate need to "TALK ABOUT IT RIGHT NOW!" I know Jess is stressed out right now because of work. And Jess knows I was right. I woke up this morning at 5:15. I kissed him on the cheek like I always do. He made a smooch noise, half asleep like he always does. And just now as I am writing this, he comes into the room and sits on my lap. I wrap my arms tightly around him; rest my chin on his shoulder; wrap my legs around his. And we are best friends again, just like we always are.

But This is Different . . .

idrewthis.org

Waiting for the Other Poo to Drop

Jess and I don't own a pet. Being selfish is just too rewarding. But we do like animals, and with a dog park just across the street, we make pretty good dog-sitters. Jess' folks decided to stay in Florida through Easter, so we had their French Bulldog, Oliver, for the weekend.

Let me say from the outset, you haven't really lived until you've wiped a dog's ass! One morning in the dog park, Oliver got a little excited and started running off, mid-shit. I had one plastic bag, a steaming mound on the ground, and a shitty-assed dog that had to be carried up three flights of stairs he couldn't climb himself. I had to get a little creative. I cleaned Oliver up the best I could, my hand sheathed in the plastic bag, then used the same bag to pick up his detritus. I took the pup in my arms and went back inside.

Once inside, I could see that Oliver still needed a little clean-up, so I put him down long enough to get a warm, moist cloth. What I didn't realize was our bedroom door was only pushed-to and not latched. Imbued with that profound satisfaction one gets from a good crap, Oliver jumped into bed with half-asleep Jess who eagerly took the dog in his arms and under the covers.

I had always thought I wouldn't be cleaning shit out of the bed until at least my 60's.

I Seem to Have Lost My Penis!

I'm a creature of habit. Several of them. I've been wearing Calvin Klein boxers for more than a decade now. I like the way they are cut. They're not too baggy, not too tight. The waistband isn't irritating and the fly does not easily gape open (unlike my hole.)

But the other day, I was in dire straits. I hadn't done laundry in three weeks. My gym bag was packed. In addition to my workout clothes, I had a change of clothes for after I hit the shower. Minus underwear and socks. So before my workout, I ducked into the Filene's Basement which is in the same building as my gym, which is in the same building as my office. I bought a pair of Joseph Aboud boxers and a three-pack of Nautica socks.

Fast forward to after my workout. I'm back in the office. I'm wearing my crisp, brand new undies, which is a little gross because new clothes always smell a bit like sweatshop and child labor. My dress shirt is neatly tucked into my slacks. Belt cinched a notch too tight. I go to the men's room to relieve my bladder.

I'm standing at the middle urinal. I have a co-worker to my left and right. I unzip my trousers, this particular pair having a smaller than normal opening (unlike my hole.) I reach in with my fingers to that familiar place where Pepe can always be found (slightly to the left.) But this time I hit a brick wall. Or more precisely, a crisp new pair of unfamiliar boxers. My fingers scurry farther left. Then backtrack to the right. Then up and down.

I'm in a quasi panic. Where the hell is my penis! I know he's nothing to brag about, but he does exist and can always be relied upon to perform the basic functions. In my frustration, I became a little too animated in my maneuvering. I realize that my coworkers to the left and right are completely aware that something is going on the other side of the urinal dividers. Try as they might, they can't help but look over to see what the hell is wrong with me. This does not help my situation.

Finally, they each finish with their business, wash their hands, and leave the men's room wondering what the hell I was doing to myself. This scenario is not unfamiliar to me, but is somewhat embarrassing in the milieu of work as opposed to a rest stop. Eventually I undo my belt, unfasten my trousers and urinate successfully. I can only imagine what the guys next to me thought I was doing.

The moral of the story is that wearing no underwear is better than wearing strange underwear. Lesson learned.

Baby Cow Leg Tastes GOOD!

Veal. Who cares if they spend their lives in crates? It's not like foie gras geese who are force fed until their livers rupture (although I would eat that two if I liked the way it tasted.) I made Osso Bucco for the first time on Saturday and it was delicious. Jess and I have found ourselves a butcher. His name's Bill and he works at John Dewar & Company in Newton Centre. He's "one of us," meaning he's gay (not an alcoholic.) We made Grilled Tuna Steak Teriyaki the following night, and while it was perfectly prepared, I did not care for the tuna-teriyaki combo. I'm new to the whole fish thing anyway (eating fish, not pussy.)

I'm off for a Physical Therapy appointment at 7:30 this AM. Gotta remember to shave my tits. Don't want Joe to see the stubble when he does the ultrasound on my shoulder...

Thank God We Live Close to a Bar!

We put on our shit-kickers last night and trudged through the snow to The Alchemist. It was a grueling 1500 feet, door-to-door. Upon arrival, we rewarded ourselves with a libation. Eschewing the Guiness and Newcastle, we opted for delicately colored cocktails--my usual Cosmo and Jess' usual Pineapple Martini. MANLY!

Our favorite bartender John was not at his usual post. Luckily he arrived just in time to guide the bartender on duty through the pineapple martini creation. I guess John wasn't working cos he's working a double today--St. Patrick's Day. God help him!

We scarfed down a Roasted Chicken and Lyonnaise Potato Flatbread and Braised Beef over House-Made Parpadelle Noodles. Then we bundled up and walked home. I had a sweet-tooth so I whipped up a batch of Molten Chocolate Mini-Cakes with whipped cream. Jess only had one, but I had two.

I can't understand why I'm getting fat!