It was an incredibly wonderful weekend over here in this far southwestern-quadrant of New York City. Friday night was spent co-cooking a dinner party for eleven friends at our friend Jamie’s apartment in Soho, followed by a totally unnecessary (but nonetheless, hysterical) karaoke session at a mob-run dive bar on Mulberry street. Saturday was palpably gorgeous – sunny bright blue skies that were studded with giant marshmallowy clouds, and temps that managed to stay within just-one-layer-necessary territory. Today was brimming with dog park jaunts, multiple rounds of french-pressed coffee at home, and the requisite gym visit that I (somehow) managed to eek out before noon. It was great, it was fulfilling, and it was busy….but I still couldn’t stop thinking about how I’d rather be…..skiing.
You see, one week ago, my head was (quite literally) up in the clouds. Last Sunday I was coming off an altitude-high after spending four days eleven-thousand feet above sea level skiing in Colorado at Vail Mountain. It was amazing mini-break that we spent with ten fine friends hitting the slopes, practicing and perfecting our après, and generally enjoying the company of excellent people.
I brought my camera to capture not only the gorgeous and jagged mountainous skyline, but also with the intention of tempting you with the absurdly delicious pulled pork I gobbled at Moe’s, the warm and spicy white chicken chili that our delightful host Ashley whipped up for dinner, and the scandalously yummy mudslides we girls eagerly imbibed at the Sonnenalp whilst the boys skied in the backcountry. Now those mudslides, my friends, were a definite highlight.
Alas, as the old adage goes ‘time flies when you’re having fun’ and our four long days melted away more quickly than fresh powder does on a sunny March day. It was suddenly and abruptly time to fold up my long-johns and pack up my parka, when I spied my poor camera sitting solitary in her case – lonely, cold, sad, and completely devoid of any photographs. I had abandoned her, and had nothing to remind me (or show to you) of our incredible trip but the lingering smell of chlorine from the hot tub in my hair and a slightly sore backside…
Hey…..I’ve never claimed moguls to be a strong suit of mine.