> ## Content Index
> Fetch the complete content index at: https://dianaludwick.com/llms.txt
> Use this file to discover other available public pages before exploring further.

# Caviar
- URL: https://dianaludwick.com/caviar/
- Published: 2026-03-25T19:52:00.000Z
- Updated: 2026-10-24T20:10:22.000Z
- Description: “Caviar,” in praise of celebrating women and milestones, written March 25, poem 084 in a series of 365 poems written by Diana Ludwick in 2026. "Caviar and Bubbles," a ladies' night out. Photo by Diana Ludwick (c) 2026.
- Author: Diana Ludwick
- Tags: 2026 Poetry Challenge, Homage, Poems, Caviar, Celebration, False Spring, Family, Gratitude, Hope, Indulgence, Ladies' Night Out, Luxury, Magnolias, March, Milestones, Progress, relationships, Women, Yoghurt pots, #Migrated-1792872215677, #wp, #wp-post, #Import 2026-10-24 20:03

So, then, I'll put in  
"The Happiest Hour" for you all?  
Our waiter shines   
a confident, direct smile.  
  
I shrug at my sister, a 'your call' look.  
"You're paying; you decide!"   
She gives a swift nod.  
"Let's do this!"  
  
Afternoon spring light cuts in   
through the front windows.  
Crystals sparkle and twinkle   
as they twist and dance   
from the linear chandeliers  
along the ceiling.  
  
I notice in my periphery  
— with a raised eyebrow   
and a heavy hint of validation —  
that this establishment has  
indeed found a secondary life  
for petite ceramic yoghurt pots,  
now in use as bespoke floral vases.  
  
My husband, far away   
would surely be chagrined  
at his inability to see value  
in leftover jars. *Good.*  
  
Luckily for him,   
it's Ladies' Night Out.  
We have convened in Georgetown  
at a Michelin-rated bistro.  
  
It's a celebration of women,   
of generations, of kinship.  
Two sisters and our mom   
— that is, whenever she gets here.  
  
A bottle from Epernay is uncorked,   
brut flows into appropriate stemware.  
Bubbles rise cheerily   
through gorgeous rose gold.  
  
We wonder aloud if pinot noir skins,  
used somewhere during production,  
are the delightful reason behind  
the Champagne's blush hue.  
  
Outside, the sun casts a  
deceptive, heatless light,  
giving the impression if not   
the reality of warmth.  
  
A nippy spring breeze  
flows through the front door,  
chilling our exposed feet and necks.  
Here's our Mom, at last!  
  
We're here on invitation  
from our youngest member.  
My sister is celebrating her recent  
promotion, sharing her joy with us.  
  
We settle into cushioned seats to chat.  
On cue, an embarrassment of riches   
hits our epoxied cork table top   
with a flourish.  
  
In front of us, now:  
a sculpture, a magnum opus.   
French plentitude and restraint;  
a masterclass in taut balance.  
  
Black River Osetra   
quivers in porcelain,   
flanked by   
traditional accoutrements:  
  
Micro mince egg whites  
and yolks, next to impossibly   
nano-diced shallots —  
as if woodland fairies had,  
with Lilliputian knives,  
comprised the kitchen brigade.  
  
Another platter boasts   
fine verdant herbs,   
piped creme fraiche  
and russet potato crisps.  
  
Pineberry, arugula and pistachio  
a spring symphony, I mean salad,  
sidles closely to plates with   
royally finished deviled eggs.  
  
Everything tastes better,   
looks better,   
feels better  
at happy hour.  
  
We eat politely,   
carefully, and   
with self-aware discretion  
as our conversation unfolds.  
  
Our tacit mindset:   
"take just enough."  
  
We scoop small piles   
of glistening golden black orbs  
onto mother of pearl spoons  
which we deposit with gentle rolls  
onto our curated potato stacks.  
  
My sister is now embroiled,   
fully committed,   
to her harrowing recap  
— a truly engrossing tale.  
  
Meanwhile, I attempt  
an exercise in futility:  
to discreetly lick stray   
salined caviar spheres  
from the edges of my lips.  
  
(*Mmm*!)  
  
All too soon, our tower nears,  
with growing dread,  
three-quarters finished.   
A true shame!  
  
Spoons slow, reticence grows.  
No one wants to be remembered   
as the imprudent one to take  
*The Last Bite.*  
  
Before we can express   
our dismay, however,  
our server shocks us   
with a second tower.  
  
"It's called '*The Happiest Hour*'   
for a reason!" she says,   
her voice tinkling   
with the self-delight   
of spreading unexpected happiness.  
  
"Cheers to abundance!"   
We three ladies raise our glasses   
to toast in gratitude as our   
eyes rove over another feast.  
  
While the magnolias sway outdoors  
and the False Spring sun chills  
brightly-lit sidewalks,  
inside we warm with love and triumph.