In Which We Receive an Unexpected Gift

Well, it seems sometimes that if one moans one's little moans about life's bothers and annoyances, the Fates - or a good friend - intervenes.

While it can't be denied, O Best Beloveds, that we may be heading through a rather Gooch-like stage of life right at the moment, I benefit from knowing more than one grand Burnside-ian presence, and so just last night, as the Mister arrived home from yet another late night at his office, he came into Our Little Condo with a most unexpected package, a substantial and very solid-looking one.

CONTAINS ALCOHOL, it said in very large red letters, several times, and that certainly seemed promising. Our evening doorman, Francis, is a solemn Ghanaian gentleman and, it turns out, a Witness and firm teetotaler. Even he, related Mr. Muscato, seemed intrigued at this Good Friday miracle (however not-quite-fitting for the day it might be) as he passed it on.

"Good God," said Mr. M., who is also highly moderate in his habits, "You haven't started ordering gin online, have you?" He looked at me as if we were already three-quarters of the way through our very own Days of Wine and Roses or worse.  Well, no, of course I haven't. I've been off gin for years - I'm purely a low-carb drinker these days, and that means wine, mostly.

But anyway - open up the package, and the inside is even more charming than the prospect disclosed by the stern warning on its exterior promised. A lovely little hamper, as seen above, with not only the promised ALCOHOL - in its finest form, Champers (and le vrai chose it is, too) - but also a lovely tub of what dear Patrick Dennis has taught us all to think of as fishberry jam, along with the requisite crackers and even a very nice spreader. What could be more delightful?

Earlier this week, you see, I'd not only been whinging and complaining here, but around the cyberverse more generally. I'm privileged to know a great many terribly amusing people, and right now it seems as if every single one of them is spending every single night either hearing fabulous cabaret singers in the fleshpots of Manhattan, seeing every promising new production on Broadway, hanging out at the very best restaurants, or some combination of all three. A truly shocking number have somehow scored excellent seats to see Bette Midler in Hello, Dolly!, which is marvelous for them but, one must sadly admit, not the sort of way we live here in the benighted suburbs of Our Nation's Capital. And so I admitted that it's not entirely impossible that I might - might - be just the tiniest tad envious.

And so some dear soul (a friend who first stumbled across this obscure corner of Blogworld yonks and yonks ago)  decided to be - or rather simply demonstrated how very much he already is - a dazzling combination of Mrs. M. Dennis Burnside and Mrs. D. Levi-Vandergelder (if that's not giving away too much of the plot in regard to the latter original character). And I can't tell you how an encouraging a thing that is. Life, one is reminded, a banquet, and that one must go out and live it - rejoin, as it were, the human race. It's a message one can never hear too often - and one that is, in fact, rather apt for this particular season.

So we shall be having a festive Easter here at the Café, over a nice glass of something bubbly and a little dab of something of delicious, and very much wishing all our Gentle Readers the same.