We are seated at a semi-round table against the wall. Perfect for people-watching, though we are too busy with our own conversations to pay attention. I love getting together with such a big group of great women, but it's hard to have one common conversation; the restaurant is too loud and the table too big. Instead, we mostly catch up individually with those closest to us — in proximity, not friendship.
The food is great, though the service is spotty. Drink orders are taken only after we've all been seated for awhile and ask. One person's pasta dish arrives at least five minutes after everyone else has gotten theirs. And one order comes drenched in oil and needs to be replaced. But these are minor blips in an otherwise spotless night.
The food is excellent and the portions generous. We order a few appetizers for the table. My favorites are the tuna tartare and fried zucchini. We finish every last bite. For dessert, we get a large bowl of tiramisu for the table, replete with two candles.
Brooke and I are careful to remove each one before blowing them out, having just seen Mitt Romney do this to avoid spreading germs.
Tonight there is no drama. Not even any spirited political disagreements. Despite the different parties we may align with, we all share the same disgust for our current POTUS.
All nine of us are ex-Horace Mann moms. We all have at least one son. Some of our kids are still in touch, others not. But I am so grateful that us moms have stayed connected. There are now nine of us who regularly share birthdays together. And now eight of us play canasta together weekly.
If we could only convince the glamorous Brooke to take up this old-Jewish-lady-game, we'd have all nine (though I don't see that happening any time soon).
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