This is where my happy hour lives. That little taster glass contains
Ramazzotti, a bitter Italian liqueur I picked up in a duty-free shop in the Frankfurt airport with my leftover Euros. Wise decision. Behind it, a five-dollar bouquet of the flowers of my childhood (snapdragons and marigolds) from the farmer's market.
Happy hour is made happier when you come home to find your significant other happily preparing you a Roman meal. Seriously.
(Though it didn't come without strings attached...or in this case, spaghetti. I was in charge of providing the fresh pasta.)
Joel's writing a story about Spokane's beer scene right now, and I'm along for the ride. On Wednesday, we visited this hole-in-the-wall.
I walk by this "I was here" sidewalk etching on the walk home from the bus stop and feel the need to pause.
Another gem from the walk home, and another childhood memory: silver dollars. I love how they change into iridescent shades as they fade.
This is a cat with
thumbs. Her name is Luna.
The view from dinner on our final evening in Olympia.
The view from our drive home, where we stopped in Packwood, Wash., for burgers. It's a ski town.
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