The first Monday morning of the Beast’s early retirement, he said, still in bed, “I think I’ll make a frittata for dinner tonight.”
I rubbed my eyes, wondering if it was all a dream. Normally I am the one waking up with thoughts of the meal that is still 10 hours away on the the brain. What would all this potential freed-up head space mean? What would I fill it with?
I didn’t want to get ahead of myself, or frighten the Beast with too much enthusiasm, or jinx it, so I simply nodded and said: “That sounds nice.”
Despite rarely shifting past third gear until Barrie, Ont., we still made good time driving to the cottage last night.
To help pass said time, the Beast read aloud some Yelp restaurant reviews. I can’t remember when he first started doing this, but it’s something we both enjoy. Whether they are mundane reviews by “Tammy” about the cold biscuits from Red Lobster, or “Ryan” expressing outrage over the small portions at Denny’s, they are entertaining—and provide a glimpse of how average, humorous, and outrageous we humans can be.
On Saturday we took my mom to the Keg in London, Ont., for her birthday dinner. It’s not often that we’re all–me, the Beast, mom, her partner Russ, my brother, sister in law, and my nephew, who is three and a half, out together.
The very kind server brought her a piece of that Billy Miner pie.
I had one bite and then excused myself to the washroom, which Ben, my nephew, did repeatedly through the course of our meal. I think nearly everyone took him. He kept telling us he had to go poo but I don’t think he really needed to take one.