Above: Sunday's breakfast. A poached egg on a bed of pesto-roasted potatoes, with sauteed mushrooms, homemade hot pepper jelly, wild green onions, and taleggio.This weekend was a dream. Figuratively, because all my birthday activities were so thoughtfully planned by Micah, so everything felt like the brightest and most ideal versions of themselves. And literally, because I had no idea how much my birthday-morning massage would knock me out. I barely remember driving home. And I think I may have napped for a few hours, bobbing in and out of consciousness, hearing Micah readying presents, treats, and lunch (some of his grilled greatest-hits). It was still perfect though. As were the dinner (Rue Cler) and drinks (Alley Twenty Six) he treated me to afterwards. And the gifts! More on those later. Dreamy, all of them.
Sunday followed, rainy and unseasonably cool - which is an excuse to do nothing all day if I've ever heard one. I threw the windows open and did "nothing" as only a Virgo can: cleaned, made lists, double-checked upcoming dates and timelines on my calendar, and read. Dreamy.