use real butter

On the drive back to the house after dinner last night, fantastic lightning storms were raging in the sky over Pagosa Springs. Just as I grabbed my camera off the kitchen counter to go outside on the deck, it began to rain, then sleet, then hail like nobody’s business! It was too much even for me. Before MIL and I went back to work in the quilt room, I watched Jeremy and his brother playing some game on the Wii. If you think it is fun to play, it is equally hilarious to watch as two 6-foot tall, thirty-something, skinny guys punch the air while shouting, “No way!” or “How did you do that?!” or “Come on!!!”

When I stepped out onto the deck this morning, there was some snow on the ground. Woooohoooo! Even though Pagosa is further south than Ned, we usually get less snow than my ILs do. Still, we’ll gladly take less if it is enough to ski. Winter is coming.

“I went shooting this weekend,” I mentioned casually.

“Shooting…” my oncologist dragged the word out waiting for me to elaborate.

“With my camera,” I smiled. He smiled back, seemingly relieved that I didn’t say I was popping off bears with a high-powered rifle from a helicopter because how chickenshit would THAT be?

On the long drive home Jeremy had asked me if it was a good trip. Before I could answer he corrected himself, “Was it a worthwhile trip?” Well, I think it was. I wouldn’t know for sure until I got home and looked through my 500 photos. Good and fun are not words I use to describe these crazy marathon shoots. We (he) drove 1000 miles this weekend. Colorado is a big state. We covered the equivalent area of Massachusetts, Rhode Island, and Connecticut combined – but mountainous.

it’s my blog, and i will cuss if i want to
Not too long ago, my dear Tartelette posted about a friend who is ill with terminal cancer. A commenter had complained that her posts were too depressing. And yesterday I posted about what *I* look for in blogs and got a commenter telling me that my posts were negative and angry, that my criticism is harsh and arrogant, that I shouldn’t hold people up to the same high standards I have for myself. Anyone who has been paying attention to this blog for more than ONE HOUR knows that I am not writing to make others feel good. I write for me. The folks who join the ride have a good inkling of what to expect. If you can’t handle the reality, this is not a blog for you. I don’t pull punches and I am not about to sugar-coat my life and my observations so as not to disturb the sensitive feelings of blokes in their imaginary world of Happy-Go-Lucky. Yes, please stay the hell fuck* away from my blog. As Tartelette said, “You will not be missed.”

*used for emphasis, to indicate that I have strong feelings about this directive

anniversary dinner
Our eleventh wedding anniversary was in March and my ILs sent us a gift certificate to The Flagstaff House as a gift. It was incredibly generous and sweet of them. We decided to postpone dining there since I felt like crap, couldn’t taste food, and probably wouldn’t enjoy the meal as I was in the middle of (frakking) chemo. But at last, we made excellent use of the gift card and enjoyed the 9 course chef’s tasting menu Friday evening.

The Flagstaff House is the premier restaurant in Boulder, boasting a wine tome rather than the usual wine list, that consistently garners the distinction of making Wine Spectator’s Top Ten Wine Lists in the World. We have had the very very good fortune to dine there four times. The first time was after Jeremy was offered his faculty position, the second time was for our tenth anniversary, the third time was for the same anniversary but with Jeremy’s parents (they wanted to celebrate with us), and now!

**Jump for more butter**