Some things are guaranteed to you smile.
A few days ago I discovered that one of my favourite restaurants has gone all Methodist while I had my back turned, so apparently now a glass of wine with dinner is completely out of the question. Luckily, the chicken paste in orange and cream sauce with rocket and grilled cherry tomatoes is still beyond divine. Most probably because it cooked with a fair splash of white wine, you never know.
Also, I found my new favourite bar. Complete with kitschy plastic lamas and swings at the bar. It would have been perfectly out-of-this-worldly weird, had it not been that most of the clientèle wore Burberry and sounded like they could be a (much) younger version of my self. But without the suit. That pattern together with a suit would be too over the top even for people in my neighbourhood. I hope.
And I've cooked with fresh apricots for the first time in my life. And, having Friday lunch at Juuri, I fell in love with smoked tomatos. Both were delicious, although I doubt my neighbours will be as pleased with my upcoming attempts at smoking everything I can find in the vegetable isle than with the smell of apricot tarte tatin. My apologies.
But in spite of all this, there still is nothing like coming home on a Friday night to find a bunch of red roses (literally hanging) on your door. That's happiness wrapped up in a weirdly patterned parcel.