You know my steez

Sunday morn in Van City and it's bright and sunny and I'm listening to Coldplay. That band makes me feel blue, but in a good way. I am going to bake some banana bread and put on some Ne-Yo. It's that kind of weekend. Yesterday me and my girl Dukes spent the afternoon in the kitchen, baking a couple of cheesecakes for her man's birthday. Last night, twenty of us went to celebrate at a local Italian restaurant. Course after course arrived on heaping plates. Bocconcini salad and marinated eggplant and artichoke hearts and prosciutto with melon. Homemade penne in a simple tomato sauce. Crisp salad with olive oil and tart balsamic vinegar. A few kinds of meat in a rich sauce. The clatter of plates mingled with loud bursts of conversation.

There was an in-house singer that sounded a bit like Roy Orbison and looked a bit like Tony Soprano. (Sorry to my Italian peeps for a lazy and possibly offensive comparison--it's all I could come up with right now). I was surprised by how utterly enjoyable his set was. I found myself, along with all my friends, belting out all the songs. You would have to know me to know how totally unusual that is for me. (First, I have an awful singing voice. Second, I tend to be a little on the reserved side. OK, a lot.) But it just felt so good to sing and eat and laugh. Sometimes that's all you need in life: friends, food, and music. Books too, of course, but not at a dinner party.