Before leaving on my recent trip to Ireland I was thinking that while there, I’d write about the butter. I even remarked that I thought I had a “butter piece” in me. Limited thinking, that’s what that was!
Don’t get me wrong, I haven’t, nor will I ever, lose my taste for Irish butter. It is truly the creamiest, dreamiest butter on earth. Truth be told I am a girl who could and would be happy to spend the rest of her days eating bread and butter. Fresh French baguette, slathered in Irish butter washed down with an ice cold American coke in a glass bottle, now that’s my heaven!
Once in Ireland, though, going from county to county with my brave husband behind the wheel of our rented car with said wheel being on the wrong side of the car and himself (as the locals say) driving on the wrong side of the road, I discovered two new Irish loves.
One could be called a relative of butter; a third or fourth cousin several times removed. The second, funnily enough, could be called the anti-butter or even the antidote to butter.
What was supposed to be nothing more than meeting my good friend
Robert – who is like a brother to me – in Dublin, Ireland to celebrate our
birthdays in December, turned out to be something of an excellent
extravaganza. Robert is the CEO of Clive Christian, "the world's most
beautiful kitchens" according to their monthly ad in Architectural
Digest. He had a meeting in Dublin that happened to fall on my birthday
2 days after his. He appears to be a stuffy, British guy with his
finely tailored 3-piece suits with Hermes ties who speaks the proper
"Queen's English", but his biggest claim to fame is that he was a
'roadie' for ABBA back in the 80's. Depeche Mode, another rock band from
that decade was playing in Dublin at the time, so that's what we decided to do
for our birthdays. 
Olympia is a charming little city in the Pacific Northwest, set down on rolling hills surrounded by forests of Douglas-fir, bigleaf maple and red cedar – a pretty, speckled egg resting in a nest of twigs.
This is Downtown Olympia, with its century-old buildings, its perfectly-proportioned Capitol, its tree-lined streets on which people drive politely and you can always find a place to park – often without a meter – near the still-family-run bookstore or café or bike shop you want to go to.
It first hit us in the speedboat as Bill and I were crossing from Providenciales (Provo to locals) to Parrot Cay – the sweet pure air that smelled of sea salt mixed with a bit of banana and coconut! I closed my eyes and felt the freshest air I had ever experienced. The air will steal you away from anywhere! For us, it took us from Palm Beach to the Como Hotel and Resorts – the only hotel on the private three mile long Cay. I suppose the fact that the hotel staff picks you up at the airport, drives you to the private dock that takes you by boat to the Cay and your own villa where your luggage is awaiting you only adds to our gracious welcome.
Last week I went on a cruise with my family. One night, before dinner I ordered a "Maker's and soda" from the Indonesian bartender.