It is Nordic Boy’s birthday this month and we have pretty much celebrated it by stuffing our gaping maws with as much fancy feast as we can get. (Fancy feast, lower case, meaning actual deluxe vittles, not upper case Fancy Feast for kitties. Don’t get grotty). First of all, Biogirl gave us a gift certificate to what is arguably the hoity toity-est restaurant in town so we pranced over there in our finest and got our grub on. It was really grand, and we felt like
Kim and Kanye Lady Mary and Matthew Blake and Krystal Carrington. They had $100 beer there, you guys! We did not order any. The waiters all kept one hand behind their backs at all times like it was Darlington Hall from Remains of the Day and shit. We did the tasting menu and at one point the waiter brought us “pine foam made from the trees you see out your window here.” And he pointed at the trees outside the window. Let me say that again. PINE FOAM. Get out of here! We also had this sweet crispy light vanilla-tasting biscuit that came with sorbet and berries and the server told us that the biscuit was made from mushrooms. Are you fucking with me, Mr. Belvidere? Because I think you may be fucking with me.
I tried to take pictures of some of the food there but the lighting was so bad that all of my photos came out looking like shadowy turds on a plate, so I shall refrain from posting those here. It was really a lovely dinner though.
Then I decided that Nordic Boy’s birthday cake should be a Junior’s cheesecake overnighted from NYC. Have you ever had one of those? They are so effing delicious. Just, if you get one, don’t look at the ingredients label because there are many many things in it that do not come from nature. Whatever the heck is in there is the bomb though.
Then! Delium and Biogirl took us out for a birthday dinner to another lovely place. The most noteworthy thing about that evening wasn’t the food (although that was so good), but rather that the conversation took a really wrong turn and one of us (all of us?) came up with a new sexual term called Butt Cobbler. Which, you don’t even want to know, trust me on this. By the end of the night we had even composed a slow jam r&b song about Butt Cobbler, so that just gives you an idea of how classy us effers get.
In non-birthday, non-eating, non-butt-song news, this week there is a big librarian conference in my town. If you’re a librarian and you’re here for it and you want to meet up, email me! DO IT.