for i have known them all already

My evening:

Flaming crepes with rum, coconut, and ice cream.  I suspect the point behind the flambé was to burn off the alcohol in the rum.  They did not succeed.

Followed by a Gym Class Reunion Party.  We played tag and four square and drank.  Pictured with me in phys ed glory is my incomparably lovely friend Annabelle. 

For the win!

My morning:

Little gopher bastards turned the soccer pitch into an ankle-spraining mine field.  To add insult to potential injury, one of them kept poking his little head up during the game when the ball was in play on the other side of the field. 

On the one hand, I felt a bit guilty for stomping loudly all over his choice piece of real estate.  On the other, he's a rodent and I don't want a broken ankle.

I did a spirited slide tackle in the first half, which resulted in the surprisingly painful scrape pictured above.  Good thing I wore my short-shorts last night, as it'll be a while before I can rock them again.

My afternoon:

My local coffee shop has a selection called "Whim of the Barista".  It costs $5, and is exactly as described:  based on their highly variable and very whimsical inclinations, these excellent and extensively-trained (and many other adjectives for which I have no room) baristas whip up whatever the hell they feel like. 

Most of them make it very clear that this drink isn't an exercise in democracy.  If you order The Whim, you don't get to inquire or make requests.  You can mention things that you don't like, and they may or may not huffily oblige.  Imagine Google's "I'm Feeling Lucky" button, but with espresso and spices.  It's like playing with fire: dangerous, irresistible, fascinating.  Even though I'm terrified of paying $5 for a drink I hate, I can't stop ordering them.

This week I've had an iced latte flavored with cinnamon and peanut butter, and a latte with cocoa, ginger, and nutmeg.  This afternoon's whim: a savory-sweet clove cappuccino.  I continue to be enslaved by the whims of the baristas.