Deb and Jim's

I could leave it at that. That's perfect, isn't it?  It's always perfect. Nothing is missing, everything is thought of.  At its most simple, it is just beautiful. 

Late last week, we visited Deb and Jim. We'd not seen this apartment yet, in their new neighbourhood, in Queens. We surfaced under a racketing elevated train, turned a corner, waited on the sidewalk, and then climbed some carpeted stairs, to the top floor. And suddenly we were in another world. 

We took our drinks and snacks up to the roof, where a storm had just passed. 

I got a bit wet.

So wet that I nipped into the bathroom and emerged, having washed my white pants, in someone's fluffy white bathrobe. Nobody held it against me.

Deb has an eye. Even her mess looks good.

Inside the pot some smoked pork stock was keeping hot.

The men paid court to another woman.

After our bowls of broth we tucked into a side of smoked salmon, purchased in Hell's Kitchen but smoked  by Jim in the hydrangea-filled garden down below. And new peas, just shelled. 

We laughed a lot. Jim is a very, very funny man. 

And we found some space for Juneberry pie, which had traveled with us on the G train from Brooklyn.

Poifect.