Dining with dyslexics (a man walks into a bra)

Following on swiftly (where do the months go?!) from my last two lame ass facespace-photoalbum-style blogposts, I’ll spare you the soft snowy vignettes of a recent voyahhhge up north to Cambridge, Massachusetts to visit my nearest and dearest family friends, the Herricks.

What I won’t spare you are a few details of how these people tug at my heartstrings so. I refer to them as family friends firstly because that’s how we met, as families residing in the same Brooklyn building nearly 20 years ago. Secondly, and perhaps more poignantly, because they’ve always included me wholeheartedly in theirs. Over the years they’ve taken me into their various homes on both sides of the Atlantic, plied me with fine wine, chilly champagne and stuff-yourself-silly Sunday dinners complete with fluffy baked goods and nutella straight from the jar. Among other things, they’ve entertained me with explosive microwave party tricks, impromptu kitchen dance parties and general antics that make me laugh so hard my spleen aches.

I have many, many reasons to love these wonderful, generously self-deprecating people but most recently my gratitude goes to David for nostalgically, yet mistakingly ordering what he thought was a nod to the old neighbourhood.

Beardy Waiter: Can I get you folks something to drink?

Baldy David: I’ll have the Park Slope Ale please.

BW: ummmmm, do you mean the Pork Slap Ale*, sir?

BD: Yes. No. Maybe. I’ll have a margarita.

*editor’s note: if you know what’s good for you turn up your volume and click on that little hyperlink faster than you can say ‘interactive website’.

Oh, and about that wintery wonderland pic, I’m sorry, I have no restraint…

Big Daddy Davy freezing his Butternuts off
Dining with dyslexics (a man walks into a bra)

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