If I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, but do not have love, I have become a noisy gong or a clanging symbol. If I have the gift of prophecy, and know all mysteries and all knowledge; and if I have all faith, so as to remove mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing.
Today my fine husband took me out to a delicious dinner at the Sole Proprietor, just down the road. We ate a delicious appetizer of lightly breaded shrip followed by Caesar salads, then munched luxuriously on perfectly melt-in-your-mouth fish. Mine was trout stuffed with scallops and bacon; usually I shy away from scallops, but the tenderness of these overcame my fears of having to chew at food the consistency of rubber bouncy balls. Yet by far the best for me was the White Chocolate Tartufo, a ball of gelato rolled in almonds and Heath bars set in a plate of liquid fudge. We split one – thankfully – but oh my goodness. It was deliciously wonderful, and I felt only sadness when even my conservative spoonfuls came to an end. We talked and laughed and it was a lovely date.
Only walking back through the 15° weather with a windchill that took it down to -2° in a skirt and nylons made me wonder about my sanity. Let me say that again in another way: IT WAS BONE-SHATTERINGLY ICY in places of my body that had never been below room temperature before. I wore my trench coat, but it felt like a piece of cotton. Bare legs and feet could not have felt much colder than my stockinged appendages as I scuttled swiftly back, teeth chattering, to the warmth of my old sweat pants. There really is something to be said for the jeans-and-PJ-pants layer combination. But Ian liked how I looked, and I figure that impressing my husband once a year cannot hurt.
– KF –