Somehow yesterday slipped away from me without my getting to the blog, but I wanted to send a quick shout out to Dianna:

Dianna is the best officemate a sprite could ask for, and I miss her tremendously now that I’m not at Wes anymore. And, in addition to being a kick-ass officemate, she remains a wonderful friend and an inspiration for what someone can accomplish when she follows her bliss. If anyone can inspire me to put down the book and get off the couch, she can. Thanks, Di, for all you do and for being such a groovy chick!

One of the things I miss most about Connecticut (aside from the obvious loved ones) is pizza. Yes, they sell something called pizza in D.C. — and some of it is even good — but it’s not actually pizza.

District friends have stopped asking me to join them for pizza, afraid to hear once again my treatise about the subject. My folks try to oblige us by having pizza whenever we visit them in the northern reaches of the state, but the Sicilians must have preferred to stay by the shore, because it’s just not the same.

But Friday, in our second annual Good Friday Pizza Dinner, the random duck and I managed to convince 7 friends still in the region to join us for our own version of a religious experience at Modern Apizza in New Haven.

For the uninitiated, New Haven has boasted some of the most famous pizzerias in the world since the 1930s. The Wooster Street eateries — Pepe’s and Sally’s, in particular — are the most well known and should be experienced periodically. But in my book (and, now, my blog), Modern on State Street is the best.

The lines are shorter. You can generally find parking without having to circle the block 12 times. And the pizza — oh, the pizza! The crust is dark, but not tooth-breaking (my biggest complaint with Pepe’s). And the sauce, mozzarella (pronounced moot-za-rell-(optional)a), and crust are all tasty. (Living in D.C. has really made me appreciate how underrated a good crust is.) And the pies are hot!

We ordered four pies for the table — cheese (the perfect, unadulterated pizza — to which all others everywhere are compared), pepperoni with half mushroom, bacon with half artichoke hearts, and the Veggie Bomb (which was laden with probably a dozen different vegetables) — as well as several salads, and garlic bread with cheese. No one left hungry and no one left slices behind (a sacrilege if ever I heard one).

The only downside to the night? It will probably be another long, long year before I make it to Modern again. But memories of an evening with great friends and great food will fuel me for quite a while.

Life is good.

The countdown to spring has begun. Admit it: if you live anywhere in the Northeast, you’ve had Sunday’s date circled on your calendar since that rotten little rodent decided to hunker down for another six weeks back in February.

Here in D.C., snowdrops poked their heads out in mid-February. And then were promptly covered with snow.

Growing up in southern New England, you expect winter to last until mid-March, when the calendar says it will. In fact, you’re generally prepared for winter to leave kicking and screaming, dumping a foot or so of snow on you during the first week of April just out of spite.

D.C. is a mere six hours south of where i grew up in Connecticut, but it might as well be worlds away. South of the Mason-Dixon line, it embraces its role as a national city by taking on the worst traits of the South and the North. It combines the rudeness of New York with the sluggishness of Mississippi. (I should go into writing tourism slogans — “Visit Washington, D.C., the rudest, slowest place in America!”)

Weather tolerance definitely sides on the southern end of things. You start seeing people in full-length wool coats — complete with hats, gloves, and scarves — at the beginning of October, when the daytime highs begin to dip into the upper 60s. So when it actually gets cold, as it invariably does in January or February (or, this year, March), these people just have no place else to go in their wardrobes.

And February was so long that it lasted into March
And found us walking a path alone together.
You stopped and pointed and you said, “That’s a crocus,”
And I said, “What’s a crocus?” and you said, “It’s a flower,”
I tried to remember, but I said, “What’s a flower?”
You said, “I still love you.”

(From Dar Williams’ “February”)

This year, i’m tired of waiting. I want spring to come and i want it now. I’m ready for buds and leaves and flowers. (I remember what a crocus is — but just barely.) I’m ready to leave behind my snow clogs and my wool coat and my hand-knitted scarf. I’m ready for March to go out like a lamb, for April showers, and for May flowers. I’m ready.

The countdown has begun…

Currently reading: Summerland, written by Michael Chabon and bought at Jay’s Bookstall in Pittsburgh