i made a partially disastrous dinner for Heather last night...did anyone else know that Morning Star meat crumbles burned if you grilled them?!?! cause i didn't :o( times like last night make me miss my digital camera because i would have loved to have captured a portrait of my poor, charred veggie patties in all of their abysmal glory. at least the spicy potatoes and the spaghetti squash were good. ohh!! i almost forgot!! Mom met Heather, and she was downright delightful and adorable. we had a delicious dinner at Dome in Hockessin, DE where we ordered a bottle of the Chehalem i mentioned in one of my previous posts. it was a wonderful evening that finally united two of the more important women in my life (one has been around for a pretty long time and the other is still fairly new). all in all, i just can't imagine a scenario in which the fooding session could have gone any better, given the excellent quality of the company, the food, and the wine (and the dark and stormy i had when we first got there; god i miss that drink, it reminds me of Brent).
i'm at work and almost completely unmotivated...this is due to the stress of moving, not work; i actually look forward to coming into the wine store each and every time i am here, but tonight i'm just not in it. i need some drinks and some time to relax. ahh, i need to get back to work...i get my Blackberry Storm tomorrow!! i'll leave you with a poem, one which is actually new...well, written within the last few months. there is definitely a Naruda-esque nature to it, especially his Book of Questions. Enjoy!
Forensics and numbers offer nothing but the awkward realization that there are things we will never be able to measure: the air behind eyelids, the surface area of a cloud, the height of an imaginary friend.
I dream in short bursts, legs kicking and tongue wagging at the thoughts that bounce through the deepest parts of my evening – simply put, it’s violent, and equations and microscopes are poor tools.
How do you measure the surprise of a tourist; the hospitality of a southerner; the life of a candle?
In the angle of photographs?
In whispered thank yous?
I wish we knew how to measure the pause of a comma, cause I hate getting it wrong.
I wish we knew how to measure importance, cause we’d get more done.
Even words are often too thin for the feel of blood, electricity, and bone.