Yes, yes, I have heard the voice-mails. I have read the e-mails. Thank you for liking this happy blog enough to complain about my mysterious disappearance. I apologize profusely for the profane lack of posts. I attribute my absenteeism to my daughter’s complete disregard for the sacred ritual of nap-time, sweet Yvette who just chatted away two hours of blogging time, and the fact that I’m virtually stuck on the continent of Europe.

At this point it looks like I’m never going to get to Northern Ireland. And I really want to get to Northern Ireland, because I want to introduce you to Vico and Rachel (not me). They are good craic and I really think you would like them. And then we could jointly start a campaign to bring them over here for a wee holiday.

But I’m still stuck in Italy, where there’s amazing food and even better art (have I even mentioned the Uffizi??), but no Vallelly’s. And I still have to cross across Italy, Switzerland, and France before I can take a plane to Northern Ireland. Do you see my situation?

And where does this leave me time to tell you about all of Ava’s antics or the fact that it’s warmer in our refrigerator than it is outside and it’s warm outside? So if you are still with me you have rightly concluded that our fridge is broken. Yep, it actually melted the butter on Wednesday. Melted it! How our new GE, stainless-steel, side-by-side managed to do what our microwave refuses to is perplexing beyond measure. This truly is imagination at work, people. So with new pets, potential preschools, and perspiring appliances, it is really time that I come Stateside.

So you are now in line to receive the flip-book version of our happy jaunt across the Atlantic.

First up, my triple scoop salute to the most savory treat in Italy!

And since we are now on the lighting cruise tour of Europe, here is the last look at beautiful, beautiful Florence (minus the amazing Botticelli, the unclad David and every other marble creature for that matter, the bohemian street dancers on the steps of the Duomo and the army of purse vendors–thanks to these brave recruits Florence can boast of housing more knock-off purses than pigeons).

Farewell lovely Florence!