In celebration of her 71st birthday, we took The Matriarch to lunch at an Italian restaurant. One of the waiters recognized her and came over to chat. 

“What are you doing sitting over here?” he asks her. Before she can reply he addresses the rest of us with, “She’s usually over there sitting in the bar…” 

We laugh on cue like we’re a sitcom audience. 

“…with her Bible,” he adds.  “She sits all up in the bar with her Bible.”

We laugh again. We could be his claque.

It is kinda funny though because it’s so true. If she’s not at church, and if she’s not at home, or with one of us, she’s mostly likely to be found in a restaurant bar with her Bible.

But this blog isn’t about her.  It may be her birthday, and she may be more interesting, and more loved by restauranteur’s city-wide than I am, but this blog is about me and my weird issues, so here we go with that.

In anticipation of lunch, I hadn’t eaten at all that morning.  As soon as I arrived, I mindlessly dived right into the bread loaves with abandon so wild that it left a bread crumb affixed to my forehead.  My sister noticed and plucked off the offending third eye midway through the meal.

I ordered a warm spinach salad thinking that was a safe vegetarian option.  It wasn’t. There were slivers of pink porkish parts fraternizing with the greens.  I pawned some of the salad off on my nephew and mom, then carefully inspected the remaining bites to avoid the interloping pig.  Then it occurred to me that I didn’t know if the bread I’d consumed earlier in my feeding frenzy had contained egg.   By the time her cake came, which surely contained egg, I said the heck with it, I’m eating a bite.  So I did. Come to find out, the bread didn’t have egg, so it was the cake that ruined my 61 day stretch of no eggs or meat.

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