This weekend I turned 30. I had planned on complaining about it to you long and loud... but now that I'm at it I find I don't have the energy. Yikes. That's probably a bad sign for what's left of my youthful vigor. On the bright side: if 30 marks the death of my youth, at least the cake was good at the funeral.
Sunday we ate at home.
I made steak and scallops. Sarah created a vaguely asian "what the hell is in this (in a good way)" salad, and a vanilla vodka-infused berry/mint/lime dessert. Since you probably wouldn't be able to get to sleep without knowing (and joylessly analyzing) what was in that salad, stupid asshole Food Diary, I'll tell you:
a Granny Smith apple
a carrot
a parsnip
dried cranberries
cilantro
honey
rice wine vinegar
salt and pepper
See? It was the very picture of healthful side-dishery.
Speaking of pictures -- then we had two Byerly's desserts.
I know and I don't care.
Monday, we both took the day off and returned to the Arboretum (again) so Sarah could take some more awesome pictures.
To summarize: Now I'm practically ancient, I eat too much meat and sugar (and fat), and I'm too tired to even complain about it. Life is good.
Your (old) buddy,
Matt
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