I use the term "ladies" loosely here. Particularly (and singularly) when referring to myself. You see, when the barometer abruptly hits 79 degrees Fahrenheit--albeit welcomed with arms wide open--and your oven is cranked up to 550 degrees Fahrenheit and you're buzzing around your apartment and you're joined by five other human beings who are also buzzing around your apartment, things tend to get...hot. And not in a Girls Gone Wild type of way. I assure you. Although, clothing was admittedly removed. By yours truly. More than once.
Three times. I had to make a costume change three times over the course of one Easter Brunch. Why, you ask? Again. Things got HOT.
Even with the AC coursing an arctic chill on full blast, the lack of air circulation throughout my apartment failed to deliver any relief for my glistening--no, dewy--guests and me. So after a round of Kir Royales, we poured generous glasses of ice, cold Puerto Ricans (a light beer-based mimosa. don't ask. just try.) and kept 'em coming. What? Something had to cool Mama off.
And then we ate. And ate. And ate some more. Discomfort ensued. And then a round of Apples to Apples. And then? Well, then we ate again.
Happy Easter, "Ladies" and Gents!
[kir royales to toast the man]
[the handsome, albeit massive, spread]
[smoked salmon pizza with dilled sour cream and red onion]
[pizza with parmesan béchamel, sautéed mushrooms, spring onion, and egg]
[naughty, naughty, naughty things]