Wait... do you?
It's a pile of grape leaves, that much is clear. It's a pile of freshly washed grape leaves drying on my ping pong table.
It's not a very pretty photo, though. Nor does it necessarily tell the right story.
You know what this means, don't you?
If you've been playing along, you might think this means that I'll soon be heading back to the ol' C.T. for a
That is true, it is valid and certain and inevitable.
But in a dizzying cosmic tweak of reality, it seems that I have yet to actually purchase actual airline tickets. Who am I?
I don't know. I don't know what's going on. All I know is that I keep eyeballing those gorgeous, bodacious green leaves on the grape house at work, and I've had wada on my brain, yo.
I incited an awesome flurry of emails among my family last week about recipes and mystifying measurements and grades of meat, and in the midst of that flurr I began to get excited about stepping up and taking on the rolling of the grape leaves.
It's on. Like donkey kong.
I just have to host a birthday slumber party and go to portland and close the fiscal year and buy some freaking plane tickets.
Then it's on.