Recovering from Last Week

So Last Week? Let's just promise each other we won't talk about it, all right? Last Week was a straight up bitch and I'm doing my best to remove all memory from my mind. Come Friday Marc and I opened a bottle of VERY nice wine in an effort to erase the past five days, and by the time 11pm rolled around all I could do was sob something incoherent about chicken soup and Chris O'Donnell so Marc declared an immediate and swift moratorium on all outgoing calls, texts and or Internet communication and sent me straight to bed. You're welcome.

Saturday, I spent most of the morning sacked out on the couch dozing and avoiding the laundry that was screaming FOLD ME! from upstairs. I did manage to rouse myself by the afternoon to go wine tasting which was glorious. The weather has been Arctic and so pumping our veins full of the grape helped numb us from the nearly freezing temperatures outside. (Though I said I wouldn't talk about Last Week, I do have to mention that almost everyone was updating Facebook with some version of "What is UP with this weather?" Like the cost of living here should mean certain things...for instance: we don't have to put up with temperatures that require a parka AND a hat AND gloves. No one living here owns all three items. If we're not warm enough with a sweatshirt and Uggs, we're not going outside.) Despite the cold, the afternoon was lovely and we managed to go through what I can only imagine was at least a barrel of wine.

BEHOLD! The Carnage.

I woke up yesterday with an extreme desire for a crab sandwich. And no, that is not a euphemism for something else. I was craving an actual crab sandwich from Duarte's, which is this random, little restaurant along the coast known for its artichoke soup, various berry pies and the crab. OH SWEET LORD IN HEAVEN THE CRAB. The first time I ate there I though I saw Jesus and the second time I went through something not unlike a conversion. All I know is that I fell to the floor in ecstasy and when I woke up I was covered in butter and was spouting off the recipe for sourdough, so SOMETHING holy happened while I was passed out. Either way, my very obliging husband who was also recovering from Last Week said, "Ok!" when I expressed my desire for the religious sandwich. After years of marriage we have fallen into a routine of sorts. We have our Evening Routine, the Santa Cruz Routine, the Let's See How Long We Can Get By Without Folding the Laundry Routine, and the Jen Needs a Crab Sandwich Routine. This entails driving over to the coast, getting drinks at San Gregorio General Store, walking along the beach in search of seals and then driving to Pescadero, home of Duarte's, home of my Holy Grail of crab.

I won't go into great detail about the day only to say that the healing power of time with one that you love is magnificent. It's the perfect balm for tattered nerves and any lurking unhappiness that might spot your usual glow. Marc and I didn't speak much. We just listened to great music, pointed out things that made us laugh, held hands and were peaceful in the knowledge that when we have weeks that do their best to stomp out all of our resolve and joy, we still have one another to come home to. And that thing, that care and love that we provide for one another in the eye of all of the muck and mire of life, well, that's erases a world of wrongs.

BEHOLD! The weary couple. I need more sleep. Or some REALLY good eye cream.

So it was a good day. The sandwich was as amazing as it was the first time I ate it. The weather was perfect...that stormy, Gothic kind of feeling that makes you want to run along a moor and call out for Heathcliff. Byronic tendencies aside, added to the fact that my hair was starting to do strange things, we headed for home where we cuddled up on the couch and watched Up! and then retired to bed early. I'm now paying for the sins of ingesting WHEAT & BUTTER! But I'm just going to sack up and not complain about it. Marc, on the other hand, might have a thing or two to say to you tomorrow about my intestinal gymnastics. Whatever. He signed on for it.

BEHOLD! The sandwich.