Mother’s Day, 2008. Craftily I have planned, believing *I* am far smarter than the general public… yesssss, we will sneak mom into the car, and we’ll all head off to town for an early supper… We’ll fool them all! The restaurants will be our playground! Last year’s endless waits for entry will be a mere whisper of a memory.
NOT!
My mom loves Red Lobster. I think something happens to you after the age of 70 that makes your taste buds turn. That, or she’s been too far from our beloved Gulf Coast too long, and knows Red Lobster is a place for a quick fried shrimp fix. (I guess we can forgive them for their icky meal breading….)
Red Lobster por moi? I dunno… I think hungry is often a better alternative. Depends on my mood. However, those cheesy bisquick biscuits are quite nice… sodden with that factory impression of a butter-like substance. How easily I am swayed… All my years growing up, I loathed bisquick drop biscuits, and wished for a mommy who rolled out beautiful yeast biscuits… well, at supper time anyway. I love my mama, but hated, loathed, despised drop biscuits made from Bisquick. Now in my adulthood, I find I can be lured to the ultimate blasphemous temple of seafood known as Red Lobster, for a lump of flour littered with cheese products and saturated in fake butter. <sigh> (I have figured out how to make them at home w/o Bisquick, and with glorious aged English cheddar and Irish butter that would make Paula Dean weep).
We load in the car. Ten minutes into this gig, we are fight free! MY Mother’s Day present! Me, hubby, mom, the sixteen year old headphone wearing moody she-devil that I adore, and the eighteen year old cranky not ready to be an adult, yet too old to still be a child son that I equally adore. The only ones missing are my very much missed and equally adored oldest boy and his girlfriend who have been cast into the hellish heat of Victoria Texas.
All the world knows I am patient as Mother Theresa until I’m behind the wheel of a car. (OK, maybe not Mother T, but somewhere inbetween a badger and Mother T…) We pull into a Red Lobster that has been connected to an Olive Garden – much like some sick conjoined twin.
Why do these restaurants put all the parking in the back nether regions behind the building? I’m sure there’s other properties even farther away! They do this, leaving only a handfull in the front for the winning 15 of 4,505, 382,1092 diners waiting to get inside the establishment. I want a front spot. Parking is a game, and I’m no loser. This means, yes, this means we circle. You see, my father was a “take the first spot you find, even if you have to walk 1/2 hour to see the store on the horizon” parker. I am his antithesis. I park close, and refuse anything else. Waiting, my family complains because I won’t throw the JEEP into reverse and go back for a spot three cars behind me. I try to explain I could, on this most auspicious occasion, strike a walker, or a hover-round, or a jitter bug and it’s blue haired operator… Sorry kids, not on my watch.
My nostrils flare. Everyone is leaving Olive Garden (my mother doesn’t like faux-American-Italian – dont’ go there… and it’s one place I will go eat) My husband happily says “WOW, there’s a famous Dave’s BBQ, and ya’ll are from Texas….” The unspoken answer is “No”, and the ensuing ominous silence presses him into speechlessness.
I see backup lights on the horizon. I also see two harley riders gearing up. Yeah! Two spots, one for me, and the car in front of me! While the one car leaves, the car in front of me takes the empty spot next to the bikers. I sit and wait. Geisha’s are dressed and made up faster than this biker duo put on their chaps/jackets/backlavas and such. I hope their chicken of the sea was foul. (terrible pun) I am terrible at the waiting game… I feel badger-ish about now…
My husband comments how he likes my method of just “parking in the middle of the row and waiting until someone leaves”. This time, my steel gaze roasts him into silence. I am CLEARLY waiting for the slow-ass geisha bikers to dress in the parking lot so I can have their spot (a mere 10′ from the front door). I have an elderly woman in the car who’s not up for the 1/2 mile walk from the back lot – we WILL be strong, we WILL be victorious! My teeth are starting to grow sharp and pointy, I’m getting a teeny bit more irritable, just ask my hubby.
To my glee, a normal family comes out, hops in a Toyota SUV, and speeds away. I take the spot. Excited, we shuffle to the doors of the seafood bounty that surely waits. My daughter announces that she can’t believe we’re going to eat fish food, blech. Suck it up kid, it’s MOTHER’S Day, not cranky-kid day. Behave. We open doors to the foyer – it’s packed, and the inside waiting area – packed as well. Crap. We make a group decision to leave. My husband wanted to sell the parking spot, but I advised against it… surely our wonderful county govt. has enacted some law against that sort of thing. We have a mission, that mission is to eat as a family, please grandma and most of all… have fun, darn it!!!!
We leave.. where to go, where to go? I was so sure we’d fooled the masses with my sneaky move to dine during the elder hour of 4:30… I expected to see nothing but older, kind, sweet faces in the restaurant, not stressed mothers with runny nosed toddlers, and eye-rolling fathers trying to corral whiney kids.
Someone says “APPLEBEES”. Secretly I think (EEEEeeeeeeeeeewwww!) We were hungry, and we were cranky, and it was a dark and stormy night as they say. Applebees greets us with a too-cheery “that’ll be a 10-15 min. wait time!” (who can argue that?).. and grandma says “WOW! LOOK! The Spurs are playing!!!!!!!!!!” Our fate is sealed.
My mother is the world’s largest basketball fan. To speak ill of her beloved San Antonio Spurs is akin to taking the Lord’s name in vain in her presence. Don’t do it… You’ll bear a scar and emotional trauma for the rest of your life. I take this proclaimation of the b-ball game to be a sign from heaven, an omen that this is the place we should dine. That food mecca where all tummies shall be soothed.
12.5 minutes later, we’re ushered to a large booth with the view of not one but two televisions. Both are broadcasting the Spurs’ versus New Orleans. It gets no better than this… :O)
Menus open, solemn faces gain a pleased look. My husband says “Hmmm, Chicken Fried steak!” Grandma says “YES!” The boy says “YES!” The girl and I make our decision. Here she comes, her name is Darlene. She is our culinary savior. Eagerly she inquires as to our request for food… Mom says “Chicken Fried Steak please…” Darlene’s face drops like like a coin in a fountain. The words she utters seem otherworldly, playing in slow motion as she says “Oy ammm sor-reeeee weee haaavuhh noooo chikkkkeeennnn friiieeedddsstteeaak, theee factoreeee buurneeddd dooowwwnn onnn Valleeeentiiiiineess dayyyyy” Ok – there’s something inherently wrong about the “chicken fried steak factory burning down on valentine’s day”… Reminded me of where I was, and how the food is prepared.
Like dominos, I watched the faces of my mother, then my son, and finally my husband sink to the tabletop. Burger, burger, chinese shrimp salad… It was food.. nothing more, nothing less.
The best part of today was the beauty of spending another Mother’s Day with my mama… each year, I am not sure if the next will be there for us, or if cancer will finally win the game. Each year we laugh about the fiascos we always seem to endure for any family outing. Each year we are closer friends, our bond grows tighter, and just when we think we can’t be closer, we find the past year has given us other opportunities to become one.
My mother got a fabulous gift, her beloved Spurs came back to life! Of four games in the playoff, so far two wins for New Orleans, one for San Antonio… Come on guys, give mama a championship, then I will take her to Red Lobster on AARP day, and we can get a discount, eat shrimp, and celebrate victory!
Next year, we’ll try a craftier plan… we’ll order out – and send one of the kids to pick it up. :O) They’ll never see us coming… we will be SOOOO smart (like we were this year…)
