Birthday Presents (III), or, Speechless

That’s what I’ve been, embarrassingly, since Saturday, when a nice lady knocked on my door in the cold gray December rain and gave me this:




The bag says “Unwined,” which is the last thing I am right now, thanks to the one and only Azahar-Sevilla, Queen of Tapas. You can read about how she made it happen here.

It’s been a little over six years since I met Az in the ether of the Internet. My gym friend Stiletto — long absent from the blogosphere, alas — lured me to the equally long lost blog of one Frontier Editor, and there was this person posting with the icon of a little black cat peering over a laptop, and how could I not click through?

We are so not alike. She gutsily left Canada and reinvented herself as an ex-pat in Spain; I’ve never lived more than a few miles from where I was born (unless you count college)  and since the century turned I refuse to travel at all. I’m butch

Elise Luftmann

and she is gracious and gentle,

Lady Hamilton

she loves Christmas and I’m a grinch who shrieks at the sound of jingle bells, she posts all these pictures of ham and I’m a vegetarian.

But none of that matters when you have a few important things in common: cats, a profound BS allergy, and a homing instinct for good food and wine. I still have a dozen or so recipes from her (surprisingly vegetarian-friendly) kitchen page on my to-do list. Sherry education has been promised. I humbly follow where she leads.

Love ya, Shawn. I promise — I’ve got my heat-transfer engineer on the job of accurate sherry chilling. Once he’s moved in. But that’s a story for another post…