Cottage Blessings

Meet me in the middle

Perhaps the most wonderful thing about spending a Summer in San Francisco is that it tends to be a port of call for travelers heading north and south along the California Coast. Yesterday, two beautiful families were making such a journey, one on the way down to San Diego, the other on the way up to Sacramento.

And we were ready and waiting at our beloved Golden Gate Park to greet them both!

First, we spent a happy half hour with Erica Sanchez and family. When you consider the brevity of the visit, it is amazing to see how chummy the children look. But, of course, they share a unique bond as the east coast and west coast best friends of a certain loveable and recently relocated family.

Francis Scott Key Memorial:

Apple Cidering Monument:

Out of the sling and ready for action (Eileen races around the Key Memorial, much to the delight of several sweet young Sanchezes):

New friends chat:

How kind of the Golden Gate Park to arrange for sprinklers at just the right moment--the little ones were in heaven:

Friends-for-life, Marie and Annie, take a stroll:

All too soon, our darling Sanchezes were off to their next stop, a Cable Car Ride downtown! Fortunately, we had another treat in store for the afternoon, meeting my beloved cousin Margaret, her husband, and their too-beautiful-to-be-true children at my new favorite spot for entertaining, The Japanese Tea Garden!

Margaret's tiny daughters are almost the exact same age as Maureen and Eileen, so the afternoon of romping and hand-holding continued unabated. Here, three young O'Briens play in the water fountain. (Wouldn't my grandmother have loved to see them together?!)

Maureen and her new best friend exchange a loving glance:

Being from the same stock, Margaret and I both enjoyed stopping for tea--this time I even let my children order hot chocolate! Here we are waiting outside while my older girls browse in the gift shop:

Now, let's say a prayer that I can get my dear cousin and her family to visit me in New York one of these days!

Sunshine, Wind and Fog

Photo and video editing at www.OneTrueMedia.com

Our Summer Banner features the Golden Gate Bridge in sunshine, yet, as you will see, it is perhaps more striking when embraced and softened by a blanket of the Bay's famous fog. The video provides a panoramic view from Crissy Field on the Presidio and begs the question: Is my New York accent as thick as the fog?

Girls, sails, and sunset:

Patrick explores a tidepool with Alcatraz blazing in the distance:

This is how I will always envision the Bay--all sunshine and fog and happy children:

Young Eileen will not remember it, but I will be sure to tell her how we once walked the western shore together wearing coats that just happened to be the exact same shade of beachy blue:

[Photo credit: Marie, age 7]

"Yet the sound increased -- and what could I do? It was A LOW, DULL, QUICK SOUND -- MUCH SUCH A SOUND AS A WATCH MAKES WHEN ENVELOPED IN COTTON. I gasped for breath, and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly, more vehemently but the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about trifles, in a high key and with violent gesticulations; but the noise steadily increased. Why WOULD they not be gone?"

--from The Tell-Tale Heart by Edgar Allen Poe

One evening in the not so distant past, I was helping the girls get ready for a special event--Christmas maybe, or perhaps a Communion. Whatever the occasion, it was important enough for me to comb each of their freshly-washed heads myself. I began with Agnes, sitting her in our upstairs bathroom, carefully parting her straight brown hair and running a comb through it. This tedious process always takes a while, and before long she was absently tapping our loose shower door with her foot. Back and forth went the foot, closing the faulty door, only to have it spring open again and again. "Honey," I said, not especially liking the repeated taps, but still unruffled, "Would you please stop doing that?" "Sure, Mom," she said, immediately pulling her foot away from the door as I continued to comb.

Finishing up, I called Theresa into the room, carefully parting her straight blonde hair and running my comb through it. Before long, I heard a tapping and saw that Theresa was nudging the loose shower door closed with her foot, only to have it fall open once more. "Theresa, could you stop doing that?" I said firmly, "The noise is bothering me." "Sure, Mom," she obliged, retracting her foot as I continued to comb.

Next in the chair was (then) six-year-old Margaret, who had been playing dolls in her room with Marie. I carefully parted her strawberry blonde hair, running my comb through it. Within minutes, I could hear a tapping--a maddening, grating, inexcusable tapping. Margaret was closing the loose shower door with her foot, reclosing it each time it fell open. "Margaret!!!" I bellowed like a Bear in a Baiting, "WOULD YOU STOP OPENING AND CLOSING THAT SHOWER DOOR?!!!!"

Margaret looked dumbfounded--my sudden outburst in that enclosed space taking her entirely off guard. She did not even cry, but just stared aghast, her stark white face going red to the ears. In my mind, there was nothing for her to be surprised about--hadn't I repeatedly been saying to STOP making that awful noise?

Within ten seconds, of course, I realized what I had done. My patience had been worn thin by the tapping and the monotony of combing head after head after head. Margaret had not done anything wrong, although it certainly felt as if she had. Collecting myself, I apologized to her, explaining exactly what happened. We shared a laugh over it, and all was well again as I finished combing that strawberry head.

Every now and then, a single event shines a floodlight upon hundreds of others, and so it was with this one. How often had I lost patience with one child over something inconsequential when in reality my nerves were frayed by one or two or half a dozen other people who had just done the same thing? [This is completely understandable too, isn't it? No mother wants to yell at her kids--that Bear in a Baiting would much rather be eating blueberries placidly, or better yet snoring in her cave!]

To this day, when I feel the heat of maternal indignation rise within me, I try holding off just long enough to ask myself the question: Am I being fair, or am I giving my child "The Shower Door"?

And when, as it often does, it turns out to be the latter, we usually share a laugh over it!

I suppose it would be fair to ask the question--does the Gunther Family ever stop taking Tea?

The answer, at least here in San Francisco, would be a resounding "No!"

As we eyed the rustic tea house in the heart of Golden Gate Park's Japanese Tea Garden yesterday, Agnes sensibly reminded the others, "We have two thermoses full of tea and a box of Teddy Grahams in the stroller." She was right of course, but those wooden benches and handle-less cups were calling me, and, besides, when would we be back there again?

A kimono-clad waitress came to take our order, offering a choice of green tea, jasmine, or oolong. Not being a connoisseur of anything other than our usual Barry's or Twinings, I asked her which she recommended for children, to which she replied, "Hot chocolate."

This was a reasonable suggestion, but I wanted the little ones to have a Japanese Tea Garden experience, so, over Patrick's cries for hot chocolate, I ordered green tea for seven. It was a breezy bay day, with a chilling mist in the air, and the piping hot tea hit the spot, particularly when paired with almond and sesame cookies, spicy snack crackers, and fortune cookies with the usual upbeat predictions, "A financial investment will yield returns beyond your hopes" and "Good news will come to you from far away."

Back in college, I remember going to Benihana Restaurant with a group of friends. One of the girls requested fortune cookies to cap off the Teriyaki, and our server laughed outright, declaring, "Fortune Cookies are Chinese--this is a Japanese Restaurant!" She received quite a bit of good-natured ribbing from the rest of us after that, but I plan on calling her up one of these days to let her know she was not all wrong. Between sips and nibbles, Agnes informed us that the founder of San Francisco's Tea Garden, a wealthy Japanese landscaper, is purported to have invented the Fortune Cookie right in that very spot. The idea was later embraced by Chinese Restaurants, but its origins are pure American Japanese!

Here I am perched on the Drum Bridge with Marie--please note the steep sides and my death grip on the rail! Is it any wonder I left the baby with Agnes while crossing it?

We have modest tea gardens at home, but nothing at all like this five acre pagoda and pond-filled oasis.

The children especially loved watching koi and crawfish in the ponds, begging to return on a sunny day. (So much for the question, "When would we be back there again?")

The Japanese Tea Garden is yet another jewel in San Francisco's many faceted crown!

Moments ago, I was sitting at the computer, when five-year-old Patrick tried to squeeze in on my lap. I was just finishing something and space was tight, so I responded absently, "There's no room, honey." To this, he let out a dejected sigh, lamenting in the most pitiful voice, "Oh, I wish I were the wipes box!"

It was only then I noticed for the first time that the box of wipes was in the coveted spot, with my elbow resting on it.

Needless to say, the boy is on my lap now--and I'm signing off!

I just loved this photograph of Agnes thoughtfully watching birds near San Francisco's soaring Palace of Fine Arts. Since coming here, we have been amazed by how tame and fearless the birds are. Pigeons and starlings, blackbirds and swans approach undaunted, flocking round every outdoor cafe and picnic area. They are used to being fed, of course, but I like to think St. Francis' influence has something to do with it as well.

We have noticed something troubling about the birds though. Many of them, of all types, have foot injuries, often missing toes or hobbling about on one foot. I would be very interested in finding out why this is.

If you visit San Francisco's Golden Gate Park and squeeze your van into a spot on Martin Luther King Jr. Dr, you may find yourself wheeling a double stroller down Ninth Avenue. As you step outside the park, you will want to turn left at an Art Gallery that doubles as a Cocktail Lounge, skim past DaHil's Handwriting Analysis [a business that looks straight out of Dick Tracy] and pause a moment to glance inside the window of Cuschieri's Cabinet Shop. Keep walking, and you will be standing in front of a storefront bathed in the colors of the French countryside--all sage and suntan and strawberry--and crowned with a cheery striped awning and gilded sign: The Secret Garden Tea House.

If you happen to gaze through the door and catch a glimpse of chintz and china, you will no doubt wish to enter, yet the unwieldy stoller and two active babies may give you pause. Have no fear--the owner will wave you in with a smile, "Bring the stroller right in, and have a seat. Your table is ready!"

At least this was our experience, and I am sure it will be yours as well.

As I have written here before, the girls and I have a First Saturday tradition of attending Mass and Confession before spending a special night or afternoon together, usually at a restaurant or bookstore. We had hoped to continue this custom here in San Francisco, but, with no one to watch the little ones (and Daddy working quite a bit), we have had to put it on hold for a while. Several months ago, we read about The Secret Garden Tea House and hoped to give it a try for one of our First Saturdays, but it seemed we would never be able to get there without our spirited troupe of little ones.

A few days ago, I had an idea and proposed it to the girls: "Why don't we call the Tea House and ask them to pack us a picnic to bring to Golden Gate Park?" The gracious woman on the other end of the phone said she would be very happy to pack the Tea for us to take outdoors, but, hearing one of the younger set calling to me in the background, she asked, "Are you planning the Tea at the park because you have little ones?" I laughed and admitted that this was indeed the case, and she said, "Oh, they are very welcome to come along with you. This is a Family Place. Why don't you come in, sit down, and have some tea?"

With this encouragement, I very happily made a reservation for myself and all seven children, including my lively boy, active toddler, and bouncy baby. The staff at the tea house welcomed us with open arms, encouraging me to bring the double stroller right inside and seating us at a table so beautifully set I felt as if we were arriving for a party.

Soon three tiered servers laden with a host of delicacies began to arrive--cucumber sandwiches sprigged with mint, clotted cream and scones, dainty onion puffs, and tiny napoleans (to name but a few), alongside teddy-bear shaped cinnamon toast and miniature brownies for the littlest ones. The children were delighted, all choosing the same type of tea called "A Midsummer Night's Dream." Why am I not surprised?

Lest you feel a bit sorry for my dear boy in a place so lavishly feminine, please do not! He loved it as much as anyone, requesting to return for breakfast the next day. (I kid you not.)

Raggedy Ann was impressed with the food and service, asking politely for second helpings on almost everything.

Although children of all ages were welcome, the place was calm and soothing--even my littlest ones were inspired to serenity in such gracious surroundings. The food was dainty and delicious, and we certainly appreciated the florals and pretty touches all around.

After almost two months, we have learned to love a great many things about this wonderful city, and this warm and friendly Tea Room will remain high on our list of favorites.
[Baby Eileen smiles during her first Tea as if to say, "I am so glad this is a 'Family Place'!"]

I fear our western travels will prevent us from making it to Virginia by the second week of August, but, if I could choose my location on St. Clare's Day, it would be here:

The Real Learning Conference

Celebrate the Feast of the unofficial patron of the Internet by meeting some of those online friends in person!

Little Eileen was making herself known during Sunday Mass, so I whisked her out into the vestibule behind glass doors. Shifting my weight from one foot to another, I rocked back and forth, back and forth, soothing her into some semblance of quiet. Just beyond those isolating doors, a small blonde child wore a face that was at once stricken and longing. It was three-year-old Maureen struggling near the end of the pew as two of her sisters stopped her from running toward me. The moment she realized she would not be able to pass them, she released one long, loud sob far more disruptive than Eileen's tiny wimpers. Daddy scooped her up, but I could see poor Maureen catching her breath miserably, still straining for a glimpse of her Mommy rocking back and forth.

When I was growing up in New York City, the ice cream truck came by every Summer afternoon. Sometimes, if my mother had not seen me in a while, she was relieved to hear the saving strains of the ice cream man's Pied Piper's tune. She knew for certain it would bring me tearing from yard or house or alley or garage hoping for a doggy-faced cone or chocolate cartwheel. "If you didn't come for the ice cream man, I'd have called the police," my mother often said, and this was probably not too far from the truth.

Seeing little Maureen's expression at that moment--heartbrokenly held back from her glass-enclosed Mommy--she looked to me like a child who had missed the ice cream truck, or maybe one whose mother had just told her to go get an ice-pop from the freezer.

When my older girls were little, I would have been mortified to hear my three year old screaming for me during Mass, but not any more. I'm thankful for these last few years I'll have to be the ice cream truck to someone.

Please do not miss Lissa's "Big Cross County Trip, Scrapbooked."

It is forcing me to stay up a lot later than usual tonight, but well worth it!

Beware the Shower Door

"Yet the sound increased -- and what could I do? It was A LOW, DULL, QUICK SOUND -- MUCH SUCH A SOUND AS A WATCH MAKES WHEN ENVELOPED IN COTTON. I gasped for breath, and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly, more vehemently but the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about trifles, in a high key and with violent gesticulations; but the noise steadily increased. Why WOULD they not be gone?"

--from The Tell-Tale Heart by Edgar Allen Poe

One evening in the not so distant past, I was helping the girls get ready for a special event--Christmas maybe, or perhaps a Communion. Whatever the occasion, it was important enough for me to comb each of their freshly-washed heads myself. I began with Agnes, sitting her in our upstairs bathroom, carefully parting her straight brown hair and running a comb through it. This tedious process always takes a while, and before long she was absently tapping our loose shower door with her foot. Back and forth went the foot, closing the faulty door, only to have it spring open again and again. "Honey," I said, not especially liking the repeated taps, but still unruffled, "Would you please stop doing that?" "Sure, Mom," she said, immediately pulling her foot away from the door as I continued to comb.

Finishing up, I called Theresa into the room, carefully parting her straight blonde hair and running my comb through it. Before long, I heard a tapping and saw that Theresa was nudging the loose shower door closed with her foot, only to have it fall open once more. "Theresa, could you stop doing that?" I said firmly, "The noise is bothering me." "Sure, Mom," she obliged, retracting her foot as I continued to comb.

Next in the chair was (then) six-year-old Margaret, who had been playing dolls in her room with Marie. I carefully parted her strawberry blonde hair, running my comb through it. Within minutes, I could hear a tapping--a maddening, grating, inexcusable tapping. Margaret was closing the loose shower door with her foot, reclosing it each time it fell open. "Margaret!!!" I bellowed like a Bear in a Baiting, "WOULD YOU STOP OPENING AND CLOSING THAT SHOWER DOOR?!!!!"

Margaret looked dumbfounded--my sudden outburst in that enclosed space taking her entirely off guard. She did not even cry, but just stared aghast, her stark white face going red to the ears. In my mind, there was nothing for her to be surprised about--hadn't I repeatedly been saying to STOP making that awful noise?

Within ten seconds, of course, I realized what I had done. My patience had been worn thin by the tapping and the monotony of combing head after head after head. Margaret had not done anything wrong, although it certainly felt as if she had. Collecting myself, I apologized to her, explaining exactly what happened. We shared a laugh over it, and all was well again as I finished combing that strawberry head.

Every now and then, a single event shines a floodlight upon hundreds of others, and so it was with this one. How often had I lost patience with one child over something inconsequential when in reality my nerves were frayed by one or two or half a dozen other people who had just done the same thing? [This is completely understandable too, isn't it? No mother wants to yell at her kids--that Bear in a Baiting would much rather be eating blueberries placidly, or better yet snoring in her cave!]

To this day, when I feel the heat of maternal indignation rise within me, I try holding off just long enough to ask myself the question: Am I being fair, or am I giving my child "The Shower Door"?

And when, as it often does, it turns out to be the latter, we usually share a laugh over it!

Teatime in the Park, or More Slides from our Extended Vacation

I suppose it would be fair to ask the question--does the Gunther Family ever stop taking Tea?

The answer, at least here in San Francisco, would be a resounding "No!"

As we eyed the rustic tea house in the heart of Golden Gate Park's Japanese Tea Garden yesterday, Agnes sensibly reminded the others, "We have two thermoses full of tea and a box of Teddy Grahams in the stroller." She was right of course, but those wooden benches and handle-less cups were calling me, and, besides, when would we be back there again?

A kimono-clad waitress came to take our order, offering a choice of green tea, jasmine, or oolong. Not being a connoisseur of anything other than our usual Barry's or Twinings, I asked her which she recommended for children, to which she replied, "Hot chocolate."

This was a reasonable suggestion, but I wanted the little ones to have a Japanese Tea Garden experience, so, over Patrick's cries for hot chocolate, I ordered green tea for seven. It was a breezy bay day, with a chilling mist in the air, and the piping hot tea hit the spot, particularly when paired with almond and sesame cookies, spicy snack crackers, and fortune cookies with the usual upbeat predictions, "A financial investment will yield returns beyond your hopes" and "Good news will come to you from far away."

Back in college, I remember going to Benihana Restaurant with a group of friends. One of the girls requested fortune cookies to cap off the Teriyaki, and our server laughed outright, declaring, "Fortune Cookies are Chinese--this is a Japanese Restaurant!" She received quite a bit of good-natured ribbing from the rest of us after that, but I plan on calling her up one of these days to let her know she was not all wrong. Between sips and nibbles, Agnes informed us that the founder of San Francisco's Tea Garden, a wealthy Japanese landscaper, is purported to have invented the Fortune Cookie right in that very spot. The idea was later embraced by Chinese Restaurants, but its origins are pure American Japanese!

Here I am perched on the Drum Bridge with Marie--please note the steep sides and my death grip on the rail! Is it any wonder I left the baby with Agnes while crossing it?

We have modest tea gardens at home, but nothing at all like this five acre pagoda and pond-filled oasis.

The children especially loved watching koi and crawfish in the ponds, begging to return on a sunny day. (So much for the question, "When would we be back there again?")

The Japanese Tea Garden is yet another jewel in San Francisco's many faceted crown!

A quick little story before I go play with my son

Moments ago, I was sitting at the computer, when five-year-old Patrick tried to squeeze in on my lap. I was just finishing something and space was tight, so I responded absently, "There's no room, honey." To this, he let out a dejected sigh, lamenting in the most pitiful voice, "Oh, I wish I were the wipes box!"

It was only then I noticed for the first time that the box of wipes was in the coveted spot, with my elbow resting on it.

Needless to say, the boy is on my lap now--and I'm signing off!

Watching Birds in the City of St. Francis

I just loved this photograph of Agnes thoughtfully watching birds near San Francisco's soaring Palace of Fine Arts. Since coming here, we have been amazed by how tame and fearless the birds are. Pigeons and starlings, blackbirds and swans approach undaunted, flocking round every outdoor cafe and picnic area. They are used to being fed, of course, but I like to think St. Francis' influence has something to do with it as well.

We have noticed something troubling about the birds though. Many of them, of all types, have foot injuries, often missing toes or hobbling about on one foot. I would be very interested in finding out why this is.

Teatime by the Park, or I found my heart in San Francisco

If you visit San Francisco's Golden Gate Park and squeeze your van into a spot on Martin Luther King Jr. Dr, you may find yourself wheeling a double stroller down Ninth Avenue. As you step outside the park, you will want to turn left at an Art Gallery that doubles as a Cocktail Lounge, skim past DaHil's Handwriting Analysis [a business that looks straight out of Dick Tracy] and pause a moment to glance inside the window of Cuschieri's Cabinet Shop. Keep walking, and you will be standing in front of a storefront bathed in the colors of the French countryside--all sage and suntan and strawberry--and crowned with a cheery striped awning and gilded sign: The Secret Garden Tea House.

If you happen to gaze through the door and catch a glimpse of chintz and china, you will no doubt wish to enter, yet the unwieldy stoller and two active babies may give you pause. Have no fear--the owner will wave you in with a smile, "Bring the stroller right in, and have a seat. Your table is ready!"

At least this was our experience, and I am sure it will be yours as well.

As I have written here before, the girls and I have a First Saturday tradition of attending Mass and Confession before spending a special night or afternoon together, usually at a restaurant or bookstore. We had hoped to continue this custom here in San Francisco, but, with no one to watch the little ones (and Daddy working quite a bit), we have had to put it on hold for a while. Several months ago, we read about The Secret Garden Tea House and hoped to give it a try for one of our First Saturdays, but it seemed we would never be able to get there without our spirited troupe of little ones.

A few days ago, I had an idea and proposed it to the girls: "Why don't we call the Tea House and ask them to pack us a picnic to bring to Golden Gate Park?" The gracious woman on the other end of the phone said she would be very happy to pack the Tea for us to take outdoors, but, hearing one of the younger set calling to me in the background, she asked, "Are you planning the Tea at the park because you have little ones?" I laughed and admitted that this was indeed the case, and she said, "Oh, they are very welcome to come along with you. This is a Family Place. Why don't you come in, sit down, and have some tea?"

With this encouragement, I very happily made a reservation for myself and all seven children, including my lively boy, active toddler, and bouncy baby. The staff at the tea house welcomed us with open arms, encouraging me to bring the double stroller right inside and seating us at a table so beautifully set I felt as if we were arriving for a party.

Soon three tiered servers laden with a host of delicacies began to arrive--cucumber sandwiches sprigged with mint, clotted cream and scones, dainty onion puffs, and tiny napoleans (to name but a few), alongside teddy-bear shaped cinnamon toast and miniature brownies for the littlest ones. The children were delighted, all choosing the same type of tea called "A Midsummer Night's Dream." Why am I not surprised?

Lest you feel a bit sorry for my dear boy in a place so lavishly feminine, please do not! He loved it as much as anyone, requesting to return for breakfast the next day. (I kid you not.)

Raggedy Ann was impressed with the food and service, asking politely for second helpings on almost everything.

Although children of all ages were welcome, the place was calm and soothing--even my littlest ones were inspired to serenity in such gracious surroundings. The food was dainty and delicious, and we certainly appreciated the florals and pretty touches all around.

After almost two months, we have learned to love a great many things about this wonderful city, and this warm and friendly Tea Room will remain high on our list of favorites.
[Baby Eileen smiles during her first Tea as if to say, "I am so glad this is a 'Family Place'!"]

The Place to be on the Feast of St. Clare

I fear our western travels will prevent us from making it to Virginia by the second week of August, but, if I could choose my location on St. Clare's Day, it would be here:

The Real Learning Conference

Celebrate the Feast of the unofficial patron of the Internet by meeting some of those online friends in person!

The Truck in the Vestibule

Little Eileen was making herself known during Sunday Mass, so I whisked her out into the vestibule behind glass doors. Shifting my weight from one foot to another, I rocked back and forth, back and forth, soothing her into some semblance of quiet. Just beyond those isolating doors, a small blonde child wore a face that was at once stricken and longing. It was three-year-old Maureen struggling near the end of the pew as two of her sisters stopped her from running toward me. The moment she realized she would not be able to pass them, she released one long, loud sob far more disruptive than Eileen's tiny wimpers. Daddy scooped her up, but I could see poor Maureen catching her breath miserably, still straining for a glimpse of her Mommy rocking back and forth.

When I was growing up in New York City, the ice cream truck came by every Summer afternoon. Sometimes, if my mother had not seen me in a while, she was relieved to hear the saving strains of the ice cream man's Pied Piper's tune. She knew for certain it would bring me tearing from yard or house or alley or garage hoping for a doggy-faced cone or chocolate cartwheel. "If you didn't come for the ice cream man, I'd have called the police," my mother often said, and this was probably not too far from the truth.

Seeing little Maureen's expression at that moment--heartbrokenly held back from her glass-enclosed Mommy--she looked to me like a child who had missed the ice cream truck, or maybe one whose mother had just told her to go get an ice-pop from the freezer.

When my older girls were little, I would have been mortified to hear my three year old screaming for me during Mass, but not any more. I'm thankful for these last few years I'll have to be the ice cream truck to someone.

A Cross-Country Walk Down Memory Lane

Please do not miss Lissa's "Big Cross County Trip, Scrapbooked."

It is forcing me to stay up a lot later than usual tonight, but well worth it!