Just got back from Miami, where we celebrated Passover with my in-laws. There is a brief window this time of year in South Florida when the weather is just warm enough, just humid enough, just breezy enough. At night, the air smells like trumpet flowers. So despite the traffic and the sprawl and that ridiculous airport, I had a lovely time.
And you know what else? I like gefilte fish. All the Ashkenazis at the table turned up their noses, but I would've had seconds if I hadn't eaten so many matzo balls. My sister-in-law thinks I eat them to prove that I'm not anti-semitic, but the affection is genuine.
We also ate at Michy's. It was my second time, and, sad to say, not as good as the first. The dining room is so bold and sexy, with blue and orange walls and vintage mix-and-match dining room chairs painted glossy white (come to think of it, everything is sexy in Miami once you get close enough to the beach). But two of the lightbulbs in the chandelier above our table had burned out, which, in such a cheerful room, cast an oddly sad shadow. Our blue cheese and ham croquetas, so salty and sharp the first time, had lost their kick and oozed out into a bland, creamy puddle. The menu hadn't changed much since last summer and the overall impression was one of fatigue brought on by repetition.
On the plus side, it was a thrill to eat that ancient form of gazpacho made with bread, almonds, and grapes (Try it: It's quite easy to make and it never fails to wow a crowd).
The day before we flew back, we were adopted by a young kitten who followed Scott and his mother home from a walk. He was tiny and affectionate and seemed worth the trouble of paying for re-booked flights and last-minute vet appointments. Sometime we are inspired to do nonsensical things. It being Passover, we named him Elijah.