Wearing my prettiest shoes (by Seychelles).
French press coffee with cream. We drink pots and pots on the weekends.
This is what happens when you try to walk a bulldog. Harold and Mule were not impressed.
Gambling. Left, right & center.
|Brian, Cathy & I. Magbooth.|
This past weekend, our town became consumed with Derby mania. We celebrated by retreating to the quiet pockets of Louisville unaffected by the races - namely our routine weekend haunts, they're even that much nicer when they're deserted.
I wasn't a Derby scrooge, not completely. I did partake in a little gambling (dice!), attended a late night Derby party comprised entirely of smiling, half-drunk strangers and I somehow managed to eat three meals focused around Kentucky country ham. And since most Louisvillians were dawning fancy get-ups and hats crazier than the royal wedding's, I decided to at least wear a skirt and some heels, despite spending most of day at home. That night, I watched the Derby passenger trains leave Louisville through our breezy living room window. Usually the trains only carry cars, coal or fertilizer, but once a year, the train cars are adorned with tiny, orange glowing windows and their light dances through the trees that separates our house from the railroad.
The rest of the weekend went like this:
Beer Store and dub music at the First Friday Trolley Hop. We ate like animals - Jerk chicken wrapped in foil from a street vendor, meat picked from the bones in the bar's dark backyard. I'm slowly developing a taste for beer and continued to nurture my already inherent taste for blood orange margaritas. We made new friends and watched Danish soccer on television. Mother's Day was grilling and backyard lounging. Harold chased squirrels. Delicious ceviche and guacamole from Seviche.