Dear Whoever Owns the White House with the Red Door Right when You Drive into Our Neighborhood,
Please put your shutters back up. Please, please, pretty please.
I realize we live in Raleigh, not a small Southern town. It's easy to pretend this is no longer the South, when half of our city's inhabitants are transplants from New York and New Jersey. We may not have a BBQ joint on every corner serving up vinegar doused pig, but this is still North Carolina, and your house looks naked.
Just Call Me Scarlet O'Hara
When I escorted your chef-costumed self to the library's Storybook Ball last night, your little brother tagging along in what can only be described as a thrown together Cat in the Hat costume, I was thrilled to do so. The event was beyond darling, and I commend our fantastic library staff for putting on such a stellar shindig. There was just one moment that put a damper on the experience. After waiting in a line for 30 plus minutes to meet Princess Elsa and Princess Anna (something you INSISTED you HAD to do, even after I tried to
bribe convince you otherwise), I was a bit thrown off when you voiced that, "I'm just too scared, actually," when we reached the end of the torturous queue. What gives?
Dear Homemade Ice Cream at the Wake Forest Festival,
You didn't taste homemade. And you cost three dollars.
Should Have Just Hit up Chick-fil-A on the way Home
Dear Lemongrass Thai Leftovers,
It seems physically impossible, but I am going to venture to say that you tasted even better reheated the next day than you did in the restaurant on Friday night. And you tasted pretty fantastic at first bite.
I'll be Back Again
Thanks for treating us to Thai Lemongrass. We love it when you come to visit.