Rebecca and I had quite the night out on the town last night, in my living room. In my unadorned and echoing living room. The echoes were soon forgotten and the empty walls even sooner as we cracked not one, but two million dollar bottles of birthday wine. There was no one else I would have rather shared them with. We drank, slowly, savoring each Kosher sip and ate Vietnamese--medium rare beef pho and shrimp salad rolls--and heavy Swiss chocolate in the middle. We consumed, together, as we were supposed to and laughed at how quickly these nice bottles trumped our usual hobo chic standbys. Gone are the days of Jean Bousquet, or that one with the bare trees on the label in the Chilean section. We had a taste of paradise last night.
After dining, we hauled our wining antics in the direction of the computer for the last photo shoot that this apartment will host. One for the books. Edie and Franciose: The Scandal Years, to the max and to the grave.
Here is a taste.
Thank you Tante Daryl and Uncle James for making us even poorer now that we have had a taste of luxury. I have a great family, for real. We cheersed and said "Prost" to you both after cracking each bottle. Here is to the scandal years, Rabbi. May our wine glasses as big as our faces chime well into our lives. On a beach with our beloveds in the background, in Paris when we are forty and large (well, I will be), in hospital rooms on the sly with newborns wrapped tight and to the right, on the eve of graduations, and on the nights of nuptial bliss so looked forward to. I will raise a glass and our knowing smiles will say enough.
To you, to you.
To us, to us.