Fajita Night at the Kentucky Derby

One weekend in my past life, about a million years ago, we shook ourselves from a newborn sleeplessness-induced stupor and decided to drive 3 hours to a mountain town called Grand Lake for a good 'ol fashioned family vacation. John Paul was approximately 14 minutes old, or maybe it was 3 weeks, I can't remember, and it was, in retrospect, a very stupid thing to try to do. But, but ... both children slept for the entire car ride up the mountain, so that fact alone kind of sort of made it worth it.

Upon arriving at the gorgeous lakeside lodge that we'd paid next to nothing for to notsleep for a night in a king sized suite, we piled onto the giant bed and proceeded to ... watch the Kentucky Derby pre game show. For like 2 hours. When hunger finally drove us from our nest of comfort and lukewarm imported IPAs fished from our convenient bedside Igloo cooler (class act, this family), we ambled down the hill into town in search of some nourishment. And a view of the race! Because we'd waited through hours of pre-game coverage, and dammit, we wanted to see some horses running for gold. Or flowers. Whatever. Plus, all the competitors had amazing names like 'I'll Have Another Round' and 'Little Miss Sunshine When You're Gone' and other mashups of pickup lines and Van Morrison songs.

The only restaurant we found in sleepy, off-season Grand Lake, Colorado which was open and featuring television coverage of the race, was a Mexican dive bar called La Casa de Sol or something amazing. Which was fine with me. Anyway, we didn't actually go inside to eat there, because it was standing room only, packed with locals hungry for nacho cheese and America's most questionably athletic sporting event.

Tonight was kind of like that night. Firstly, because as I type, the almost 1-year old screaming himself not to sleep in the next room over is no better a sleeper than he was 11 months ago, and secondly, because I think I made horsemeat fajitas for dinner.

Get it?

The true highlight for me was Dave pushing his plate aside and gravely announcing, "I'm sorry honey, I just can't eat this. It's the taste, more than anything."

Indeed.

Flicka, the other red meat. Viva Italia.

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