Mousse

I had lunch today at the Hobble Creek golf course. One of my lunch companions asked if I was a golfer. I've only played a few times, so I can't really claim to be one. I did tell him the story of my very first experience playing golf and the moose we encountered. A good memory, but I already told that story on my blog here.

Don't worry, though. I've got another one.

Tomorrow I'm headed to Washington, D.C., for my cousin Julie's wedding. I'll get to hang out with her childhood friend Sahar while I'm there. I don't think I've seen Sahar since we crossed paths in Paris when I was in college. [Update: Roger says that he met Sahar at my grandmother's 85th birthday party. So I have seen her more recently. That was only 22 years ago.]

Julie, her sister Sally, Sahar, and I met for dinner there. We ordered chocolate mousse for dessert and the waiter brought a gigantic bowl of it to our table along with four small bowls, one for each of us. I'm guessing that we were supposed to exercise polite restraint and each take a single portion. Instead we kept refilling our bowls until it was pretty much gone.

I pretty sure that's one of the reasons Parisians love Americans so much.