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Ricotta Cake

We’re having a great Sydney day.
Sydney has put on her blue dress with white clouds trimming and I want to put my arms around Sydney, hug her tight, kiss her on the neck and say “I love you Sydney…”
I’ve made a great lunch – black pepper beef with a cascade of red capsicums and a brilliant salad goes with it.
There’s also a nice dry French Chateneuf du pape wine.
Life is good. (Almost).
The lunch is ended with a great deal of intellectual chatterings.
There’s no dessert. OMG!
I’m disappointed I didn’t think of it.
I talk too much – I should have planned it.
Wife says “Get dressed we’re going to Haberfield”
“What’s happening at Haberfield?”
We’re getting dessert at Pastecerria Papa.
A) I’m dressed, wife thinks having a salt & pepper beard is ‘not dressed’
B) I say “I’m dressed – you’re not”
She says “but all your Italian girlfriends are not going to flirt with you if you don’t shave”
“I want dessert”, says I, “not a flirt with an Italian lass”.
Lets go then and so we do.
WE come back having had great coffee and riccotta canolli and with a big-ass Ricotta cake in tow.
And you wonder why I’m happy?


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