One of the only successful offshoots of this state of being is our "Out to Lunch" pact. We attend mass many, many miles from our home, and therefore, in the midst of civilization. It makes for a long drive, but also for endless opportunities to experience something different for once. So each Sunday after mass, before heading back into the boondocks, we take turns choosing where to go Out to Lunch.
The Pact Part Comes with These Rules:
- all turns are in order from oldest to youngest repeating
- you may not complain about someone else's pick or even attempt to sway them be it with flattery or gut punches
- all must eat at the place of choosing
- if you in any way fail these requirements, yeah, we cold-heartedly skip you
|just let me show you some love, my black swan|
|mommy, please don't let|
me be mauled by that
pedestrian family in
Yeah, anyway, just about the widest variety of beautiful humanity is there, and it is glorious for those of us who live with the curse of Stare at Everyone You Meet. Cause nobody will notice, and they are all fascinating.
|i don't do fashion,|
i am fashion
|can i interest you in my consciousness-expanding goat,|
it would go great in your kitchen
|i didn't know cheese fries grew on a farm|
But the reason I really picked the spot, despite all the other wonderfulness abounding, was to finally have a meal at the Jamaican stand. Totally worth feeding the kids blech for. Obi and I got the jerk chicken dinner, prepared in completeness (well, probably not the rice) right on the premises. Oh my wonderfullness. That was the kind of meal that will live in your memory like an old friend. If you have old chickeny-like friends with carrot slaw that are absolutely delicious.
If I knew it was that good I would have eaten there sooner, but I needed to pay a debt of gratitude to the beautiful Jamaican man who made it.
I was taking in his booth's free smells way back in the Depressing When, when he looked at Baby Isaac the Irritating in his stroller and told me, in what this mommy believes was absolute prophet honesty, complete with giant smile and rich Jamaican flare, "Oh, those are blessed eyes!" That would ingratiate any mom to anyone: take note all those of you who would like to be ingratiated into moms' hearts. But my heart, at that moment? That was so nice. Thank you, jerk chicken man, cause Isaac mostly still looks like this:
|i WILL get down and run amuck|
|whatever you give me,|
it's not enough lady
Babyhood and on, that boy has always been like that. Difficult, but with blessed eyes. Yesterday, my day of so much mirth, no different. But the good thing about the Family Es is that there are so many of us, somebody is always unhappy or uncomfortable or unsomething. And you deal with it and move on. There is always so much more happiness and delight than there are whines. No bad portion weighs down the good.
Even AnneMarie, who has an agonizing toe situation and couldn't walk around much still enjoyed herself. So much. There was a moment like this:
and all the rest of the moments like this:
|we are the 25%|
By the way, have you ever noticed that about a fourth of the Famiy Es is unbelievably beautiful? Not a bad proportion.
So, listened to live music, ate, sadly skipped the ten dollar all you can drink mimosas, (reason to go back) and drove alllllll the way home.
Moral of the story: Mom should always pick.
|why the heck are you taking a picture of this|