We tend to go out to eat on a pretty regular basis at our house. As much as I love cooking, when it comes to Friday nights, in particular, I'm anxious and ready to pay someone else to take care of it for me. Most of the time, we make our choices from the array of restaurants in our small city (which is broader than it should be, given our city's smallish population, but since we're the biggest town around for a while, we have quite a few restaurants. For a time, the rumor was that we had the most restaurants per capita in the country. Since they were counting Subways, apparently, I'm not sure this is a significant statistic). Since the time she was tiny, Jo has eaten at national chains, local diners, cafes, bistros, ethnic restaurants, and others. We've taken her just about anywhere we would (afford) to go, and only once did I feel even mildly uncomfortable bringing her along.
So when we went to brunch at a lovely, upscale place for Grampa's birthday, I didn't fret a bit. But later that week, when we were in a not-too-far-away larger city, in a revitalized shopping district, I looked longingly at the quaint bistros and brew pubs we strolled in front of. We chatted casually about where we would eat that evening, pausing in the sunshine to scan menus posted on the windows.
After we chased her through the antique stores and used book shops, we settled on a large, clearly-family-friendly spaghetti warehouse with red-checked tableclothes and a server who clearly understood the importance of sauce on the side.
It was a lovely meal. Not what we would have chosen without Jo along, perhaps, but a lovely meal.
One of these days, we'll stroll along that sidewalk again and duck into a quiet bistro.
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We were visiting nearby city for our 27-hour spring break vacation, which had originally been scheduled for what became the Week of the Flu. Our primary destinations were Half Price Books and Trader Joe's, neither of which has made it to our spot on the frozen tundra (though I keep entering my zip code in the Trader Joe's location request form).
We wandered the TJ aisles, filling our cart with pantry treats and staples that we just don't find here (Ginger Cat Cookies, TJ's salsa verde, and salted chocolate almonds), and since it was a cool day and we shopped right before the drive home, I hit the cheese section hard, reveling in beautiful gorgonzola for $5.99/pound and aged havarti for the same price. Mmmmmmm, cheese, Gromit.
We also filled a cart from a friend's list and delivered the goodness they had requested, since in this community, it serves us well to foster relationships with fellow TJ fans who might return the favor when we're unable to make the drive. After we delivered it, she was cheered that she no longer had to hoard the last few simmer sauces in her pantry.
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So we've been feasting more this season than we should have been, I suppose, but the rest--and restoration--of the past few weeks has settled me to look toward the coming few days better than self-denial this year. I am filled up--with good food, with fun, with sunshine, with love. And better able to be filled with the anticipation, hope, and joy that culminates shortly.
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