You Say Restaurant, I Say...

Recently I heard a discussion about local zoning laws on the radio. The guests were on opposite sides of the issue as to whether there should be a moratorium on liquor licenses in their neighborhood. Their disagreement was civil, and as things like that go, not very good radio.

They did, however, make the distinction between restaurants, bars, night clubs, and taverns clear. It was a difference I had never considered, and one I have been thinking about since. Any of those establishments might have a liquor license. For a bar, it wouldn't make sense not to have one, because that is a place that serves alcoholic beverages. A tavern, too, serves booze, but they must also serve food; sometimes their menu is limited, sometimes not. A restaurant must make the major percentage of its income from food sales, even if they sell beer, wine, and/or liquor, and a night club offers entertainment to its patrons, with or without serving alcohol.

The other night, we went out for dinner at a place which I knew to have a full bar, but which also had an extensive menu. As we waited to be seated, a plaque I'd never noticed before caught my eye. It quoted no one less than Patrick Henry as saying, "The Tavern is the cradle of American Liberty."

Hmm. Maybe it is, I thought... but wait! Does that mean this place is a tavern? I think it just might be! That was a much more interesting idea to me.

And so my eyes have been opened to a whole new way of sorting things, and I like it. Just today, I heard a joke. A hamburger walks into a bar and orders a beer. "Sorry," says the bartender, "we don't serve food."

That's right.

Master and Student

I told Kyle that my old brain was only able to learn new tricks before noon, so if he wanted to teach me how to play Minecraft, he was going to have to set his alarm. I figured I might be safe, but this morning, as I read the news in bed, I got a text: GET UP!!!

I laughed and texted back that I was up, and I would come to the kitchen shortly. I found him there bleary eyed and wearing the Minecrafter t-shirt we got him for his birthday. He was eager to begin.

"Don't worry," he assured me, "I'm a good teacher." 

And he was. He was patient and protective, killing all the creepers and zombies and spiders, and he only laughed out loud at me once, and that was when I fell into a mineshaft. "I saw the whole thing," he told me. "You were looking up and you walked right in! You never saw it coming." He shook his head, unable in the moment to empathize with anyone who might have trouble navigating that blocky world. 

Overall, it was pretty fun, though, and I made sure I thanked him for going to the trouble of getting up early for me. 

"No problem," he said. "See you tomorrow morning-- you have a lot more to learn."

A Naturally Wonderful Birthday

We spent the afternoon at Niagara Falls. After three days of rain, the weather cleared into a birthday-miracle, 75 degrees and sunny, blue skies and puffy white clouds kind of a day. We got a great parking space less than a block from a really cool street festival that we had no idea was going on. After grabbing lunch at the food trucks, where there were several vegan options, we crossed the street and walked the shady paths to the twin bridges that span the raging Niagara river on its inevitable course to the American Falls ans Bridal Veil Falls. Despite being crowded (it was after all a Sunday), the international crowd was quite companionable and courteous in our polyglot fashion, wordlessly stepping in and away from the railing in an improvised choreography to allow for any desired photo op. An Indian family handed me their iPad for a group shot, and of course I was happy to oblige. Every now and then, the wind would shift and we would all be refreshed by the errant mist. Below us we saw those who had paid for extra access; prowling the redwood boardwalks in their complimentary sandals and thin yellow plastic ponchos, they embraced the spray, many allowing themselves to be drenched by the falls. Next we climbed the steps and passed the visitor center to get our best view of Horseshoe Falls. The stench of a thousand seagull nests, inaccessible and invisible, but just a hundred feet below us, detracted slightly from the view, but rounding a gentle curve, we saw a real cloud rising, made of the vapor from the falls and pure white against cerulean; everything I learned in fourth grade science about weather was captured in that image, and once again, at Niagara Falls, I understood the meaning of "natural wonder."

What?

As my birthday approaches, it is sobering to see Diane Lane, that cute little girl from A Little Romance, who happens to be 2 1/2 years younger than I, playing Superman's mom!

Accentuate the Positive

Sometimes it can be a challenge to put together a vegan meal for Heidi when dining out. Going out for a Friday night fish fry is a tradition here in Buffalo (and they make the best fried fish I have ever tasted anywhere in my life!), but it is not a very friendly meal for those who are on a plant-based diet, so before we went left for the restaurant tonight, we looked at the menu online to try to figure out what Heidi might order. 

It is a pretty traditional place with many classic dishes, but aside from the salad and French fries, not a single one was vegan. "Look! They have chicken in a basket," Heidi said. "Who even calls it that anymore?"

I remembered back when I was very young, my family used to occasionally go to this restaurant that was down a long wooded lane and right next to the water. It was there that I first had not chicken, but shrimp in a basket. At the time, it was one of the most delicious things I had ever eaten, and I would have ordered it anytime we went out, but for the fact that I knew it was too expensive. Somehow I understood that I shouldn't ask for it too often, but I also knew that whenever I did, my dad would say yes.

"That's a nice story about your dad," Heidi said. "I haven't heard many of those."

She's right. I'm going to try to tell more.

Dig Dig Dig

Perhaps one of the qualities that has helped me to be a good teacher is that throughout my life I have maintained an appreciation for things that kids like. At 9' I was a little older than the target audience for Sesame Street, but I was charmed by it never the less, and I never considered it too babyish when the younger kids wanted to watch. Likewise, I have always found a way to enjoy drawing or building or reading or playing with kids, and not just because they were having fun. You can't fake engagement, and that's really what kids, what people, respond to.

Lately there has been a lot of Minecraft in my life. Students and nephews are wild about the game, but so far I have  resisted its charms. It hasn't engaged me. "Please play with me," Kyle pleaded tonight. "I don't want to have to play with myself!"

I laughed at his choice of words but promised him that I would give it a try tomorrow. "OK, show me how to start," I added because he looked so disappointed. 

I knew from my students that there was some kind of wood chopping to do at the beginning and then later on, mining and crafting. (Yeah, the significance of the name was not lost on me, the English teacher.) Tonight I peppered Kyle with questions as he punched the screen with his thumb. Why are those rocks different color? What's the difference between cobble stone and common stone? Why do you want to craft a better pick axe?

At the last inquiry, he sighed, and answered me with slight exasperation. "Because it makes it way easier to mine."

"Oh yeah," I responded, pretending to get it, "you wouldn't want to sprain your thumb."

Do You Know Why I Pulled You Over?

I remember the first time I ever got pulled over by a cop. It was like 30 years ago; I was in college and some friends and I were on our way from Hamilton, NY to Virginia Beach for the weekend. This was a spur of the moment trip-- we piled into my yellow VW Rabbit at 7 PM on Friday, and six hours later picked up another friend of mine in DC. The sun was rising over Hampton Roads and I could literally smell the salt water as I sped across the causeway leading from the tunnel. It was then I spied the flashing red lights in my rear view. My hands were trembling as I guided the car to the narrow shoulder. The other three people woke up when we stopped. My heart was pounding and there was a giant lump in my throat as I struggled to roll down the window to speak to the stern-faced trooper on the other side; I was in big trouble, and I knew it. 

Despite being 14 miles over the speed limit, I did not get a ticket that day. Perhaps there was something about a carful of kids who had driven all night to see the ocean that moved the officer to give me a warning instead. I thanked him and drove away.

Over the next few years, I wasn't quite as lucky, and I confess to receiving several speeding tickets. Lately, though, my streak has been pretty good. I've gone 25 years with just a single citation, and that one was six years ago, but when I blew past that cop in Pennsylvania doing 73 in a 55 zone this afternoon, I knew I was busted even before he turned on to the road. I moved to the right lane and waited for him to get behind me and turn on his lights. I glided to a stop on the side of the road, considerately rolling a little ways past the dead deer carcass. If he wanted to chide me, he was out of luck; there was no pounding heart, no sweaty palms, and certainly no tears. I gave the young man my documents, secure in the strength of my driving record. 

We listened to the radio and chatted while he sat in his cruiser and did his duty, and when he returned, it was not with a speeding ticket, but rather a lesser citation. I thanked him and drove away.