By an entirely unanticipated fortuity this uncommonly cloudy morning I lingered at my makeshift writing desk on the ground floor of our townhouse in Buttonwood Bay sufficiently long to buckle down to a scintillating email from a former law school colleague (now practicing law in Paris) in addition to the composition of an improvised postulation about the shades of etiquette à propos the poolside itinerant here on Key Largo. As though to punctuate the chance and capital of the window, we soon thereafter launched our projected errand to the local grocery store to replenish the larder during the process of which we passed a sign on the highway announcing in modest white letters on a bright green background “Key Largo”. I instantly gushed with awe as I once again, for the umpteenth time no doubt, recalled what indescribable favour it is to recognize this palpable achievement; viz., having succeeded after escape from the pandemic and literally months of hopeful ambition to fulfill the goal of wintering on the Florida Keys. It has thus far been a record of indolence, complemented today by the commensurately idle recognition of the Spinn Espresso Maker (thanks to DD who has proven himself an invaluable resource of intelligence, social vibrancy and unmitigated humour).
DD’s unvarnished buoyancy is especially welcome because in the short time we have had the pleasure of conversing with one another he has introduced me to the nec plus ultra of coffee making and I have had the honour to share with him my sole gastronomic coup egg-in-the-hole à la Sardegna made with a slice of a huge loaf of local bread, Parma ham, pecorino cheese, olive oil and fresh rosemary sprigs. Such are the inconsequential superlatives of life on Key Largo.
The unending providence of the moment was further enhanced as recently as last evening when we were introduced to a new Mediterranean dish very simply concocted of olive oil, lemon juice, lemon zest, Dijon mustard, tuna, celery, red onion, scallions, green pepper, grated carrot, tomatoes and spring mixed greens. From the mere contemplation of the dish I sense the weight vanishing from my corpus! A sylphlike figure awaits as I write!
For those of a more robust nature I happily report having exchanged this afternoon pleasantries with two other residents of Michigan presently sojourning here. The couple are already acquainted with DD. The woman of the duo spirited me by embracing unabashedly the unqualified pleasure of a martini, the ideal creation of which she attributed to her father. Not unexpectedly the brew emphasized the minimal dry feature of Vermouth. This minor hedonistic lapse speedily cultivated within me a degree of relief and protrusion of the sentimental sort.