The Siren call of the small town, henceforth referred to as "home," has grown in her wail.
I had a Vanilla latte yesterday that would almost make leaving Starbucks in my rear view mirror bearable. Not only was it good, it was cheaper, and the barista (how do you spell this, and if it is a guy is he a barrister?) gave me an extra shot of espresso for free. Now that's service.
And then I went out to eat at this little family Mexican place that had a fajita quesidilla to die for. Well, the cow had to die. I would give up the quesidillas here for it though.
And icing on the cake (and yet the reason I will stay here for now) is that I thought I'd eaten so much I'd probably gained back the weight I'd finally trimmed off because I felt like I was the size of a barn. But when I got home (here home, not there home) my scale read the same as when I left. Even though I licked the plate clean at La Cabana. It was just that I'd been standing too long in the aura of my ultra skinny sister-in-law.