In classic Westerns the good guys and bad guys are clearly identified. The good guys wear white hats and the bad guys wear black hats. And while things may not be so transparent in our modern world, this is my band of white hats, my posse. These are the people who would confidently follow me into a tense gun battle with weapons blazing, covering my back and making sure I got out of there alive, and still on my horse. Not a black hat in the bunch. Even on that tattooed cowpoke in the middle.
So our tribe got together tonight for a little dinner celebration since my brother was unable to attend our Father's Day festivities on Sunday. We had tapas, we quoted and misquoted David Sedaris' hilarious lines about Santa not speaking Spanish and certainly not eating tapas, from his essay Six to Eight Black Men. We ate little plates of seafood ceviche, white bean puree, chorizo, prosciutto wrapped dates, roasted potatoes, and ended with a saffron laden paella, served family style. I took awkward photos trying to squeeze us all in on a very small camera and ended up using Kristy's phone since we could see the screen as we took the shot. It was a good night. We talked and laughed and listened, and just were together. And my posse devoured that tapas, even with Salvador Dali looming over our table. Buenas noches!