2025 Upper Midwest

We wrapped up the evening with a nostalgic trip down memory lane—literally—by heading back to the first neighborhood we lived in when we moved to Tennessee (cough) about 20 years ago.

There, we had dinner and caught up with longtime friends Carmen & Dave, Deanna & Ronnie, and Carmen’s sister—whose name we swear we practiced three times but still can’t pronounce without a phonetic guide—and her very patient husband, George.

The evening kicked off with some light conversation over a charcuterie board and Caprese skewers. We ate them like classy people, pinkies out and everything.

Dinner was, as always, dangerously delicious: crisp green salad, seafood nestled in mysterious black pasta (which I’m convinced turns your soul just a little more Italian), and golden, garlicky toast that probably violated some vampire treaties.

But the dessert—oh sweet sugar rush—was a whole festival of temptation. And let’s be honest: you couldn’t pick just one. That’s a rookie move. So we nibbled on a little bit of everything: Lemon Bundt Cake with whipped cream and strawberries, Boston Cream Pie Cake, and the pièce de résistance—peanut butter fudge, lovingly crafted by Deanna in honor of Don. Naturally, she sent him home with a “to-go” container the size of a shoebox. The man has a peanut butter problem, and we support him fully.

As the night wound down, the ladies took a lovely little stroll outside to soak in the view, while the gentlemen retreated to the garage to sip bourbon and talk about whatever it is men talk about in garages (tractors? thermostats? the golden age of socket wrenches?).

Then came the grand finale.

The guys, apparently feeling very secure in their bourbon-fueled camaraderie, locked up the garage… and also the house. With the women still outside.

Was it a practical joke or a bourbon-induced brain fog? Was it “Oops!” or “Oops… teehee”? You decide. Either way, we’ll be laughing about it (from inside the house) for years to come.Læs mere