On New Year’s Eve we took the train downtown and had a festive dinner with friends. We chose a warmly lit spot called Billy Sunday, where the bartender wears a tweed vest and thick tortoiseshell glasses and pours bourbon drinks over spherical ice cubes the size of tennis balls. We ordered creamy deviled eggs with caviar, beef pot pie in a buttery rosemary crust, and tender blanched carrots with whipped horseradish crème fraîche. We ordered another pot pie, and then a silky banana pudding, and then an apple pot de crème. We ordered a bottle of their cheapest champagne. And when we could eat and drink no more we swaddled ourselves in our coats and scarves and ducked out into the falling snow. Passing cars cut through the slushy streets, and it wasn’t long before we found a taxi that would take us back to the train station. We made it to the departure platform just in time. I was in bed by eleven.
I woke up a little fuzzy and somewhat relieved that the holiday season is over. It was fantastic and I am so lucky to have had it. I just mean that I was starting to run out of steam. Both Scott and I have Christmasy birthdays, which makes the week kind of manic. After celebrating Christmas and my birthday and his birthday and New Year’s and driving a total of 30 hours to see family, I feel like a half-smashed pinata with stuff hanging out.
But it’s good. It’s very good.
This is my favorite photograph from the past year. I took it on a bus in the Dominican Republic. We were going from the airport to our friend’s wedding, and at that point we didn’t know we were about to meet the woman (now friend) who would offer Scott a job and bring us to Chicago. It was raining outside, and Scott fell asleep next to me with our passports in his chest pocket.
We were both so tired and so excited about whatever might happen next.
Happy belated New Year, everyone. Thank you so much for being a friend to this little spot!