Morning at The Kalamata.

Saturdays bring a delight to our weekends, especially when we change our routine.  For something a little different, last Saturday, mid-morning, we headed out to The Kalamata Kafé.  We weren’t disappointed.

The simple brunch was nothing short of pleasant; it was one of those simple meals that somehow feels like a small private celebration.  Soft violin music emanated from the ceiling speakers.  The waitresses were modestly dressed in pure white short togas tied at the waist with gold belts.  My companion ordered a knish—a strangely sweetened roll made from a dough similar to pillowy Hawaiian‑style bread.  It was filled with soy chorizo and melted queso chihuahua (an imported cheese), a combination that gave it a savory kick and a five-fingered punch beneath the sweetness.  I took a small bite and so did my companion; it was unlike anything either of us tried before, unexpected in the best way, and definitely memorable.  I ordered an almond croissant sprinkled with sugar and sliced toasted almonds, still warm from the oven, its flaky layers giving way to a soft, fragrant center touched with just enough sugary depth.  A cup of weak lemongrass tea sweetened with mesquite honey for the two of us gave the oomph our light brunch needed.

Afterward, we strolled up the bay, the morning light glinting off the water, then we looped back along the main road where the breeze carried the scent of salt and sun-warmed sand.  The walk stirred up memories for both of us—those long rides we used to take on the Indian Chieftain, chasing the horizon with nothing but vast open road ahead.  Only this time, the adventure came with greater comfort, steadier footing, and a quiet sense of security that felt like its own kind of freedom.  We eventually found our car, hopped in, and headed back home.  Later that day, the soy chorizo-queso chihuahua knish thing didn’t agree with my companion and we spent the late afternoon paying for it dearly.

We’ll go back to The Kalamata, but with a different menu ordering plan.

 

Shhh… in a Modest Trattoria.

It was a genuine treat to go out for lunch recently, mostly because eating out is not a daily, nor even a weekly, occurrence for us.  I enjoy cooking at home, but every now and then it’s nice to let someone else do the sautéing while I simply sit there and enjoy the novelty of it all.

We chose a little local Italian place, the kind where the fat breadsticks arrive in generous baskets and the garlic in the air is present but polite.  We settled into our booth, ordered our meals, and chatted about this and that.

Somewhere between topics, a waitress passed by and began checking on the tables in her section.  I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but her voice carried just enough for me to catch her asking a couple nearby, “Pash‑ta Fa‑shool for you” and “Mini-shrone soup for you.”

I paused.  I blinked.  I nearly choked on my ice water with lemon slice.

I have heard many pronunciations of Italian dishes in my life, but this one was new— an unexpected hybrid of culinary enthusiasm and what sounded like an anchovy lodged squarely between her incisors, forcing every “s” into a prolonged “shhhh.”

“Pash‑ta Fa‑shool,” she repeated, as if auditioning for a role in a whispering contest.

I smiled into my linen napkin.  It was the kind of small, harmless moment that makes dining out worth the trouble: good food, good company, and the occasional linguistic adventure courtesy of a well‑meaning waitress and a menu she was determined to conquer—one shhh at a time.

 

Losing It with Quiet Discipline.

I have long known that the most reliable way to lose weight is also the least glamorous: change the way I eat, and do it without powders, liquids, pills, or any of the other gimmicks that promise transformation without effort.  They don’t work.  Real change comes from willpower, ordinary food, and an honest attitude.  These matter more than any trend.

This year, my efforts began even before Lent arrived.  A goal of losing eight pounds is losing eight pounds for more energy and just feeling better overall.  As January unfolded, I found myself preparing not only my interior life but also my habits.  I started cutting down on unnecessary snacking that crept in after supper.  Sure, I still indulged in a snack here and there, but it wasn’t gorging myself.  I continued my quiet campaign against corn syrup and the sugary additives that hide in so many foods.  And I returned to simpler cooking—meals that didn’t need to resemble anything from a fancy restaurant menu.  I proved to myself that I can cook anything well, so why do it every day?  That should be saved for special occasions.  Then I returned to meals that I grew up on that nourished rather than entertained.  There was a certain relief in that simplicity.

By the time Ash Wednesday arrived in mid‑February, I wasn’t scrambling to begin anything new.  I was simply continuing what had already taken root and ramping it up a bit.  The weight began to come off, slowly and steadily, and it still does.  But more importantly, the discipline of eating differently began to shape the discipline of living differently.

Attitude is half the work.  I stopped letting the noise of the secular world dictate my mood or my focus.  I ignored the foolishness that swirl around in headlines and conversations.  Instead, I turned my attention toward things that actually strengthen the soul: spiritual reading that lifts and edifies the mind and praying the Rosary with attentive meditation rather than mindless haste.  These practices didn’t just support my physical goals—they steadied my interior life.

There is a quiet joy in sacrifice when it is chosen freely and offered with purpose.  Lent simply gave me the structure to continue what had already begun: a return to simplicity, a clearer mind, and a heart more anchored in God than in the world’s distractions.

In the end, this has reminded me that caring for the body and caring for the soul are not competing tasks but parallel ones.  The more I simplified my meals, the more I found myself craving a simpler interior life as well — one less cluttered by noise, distraction, and the endless commentary of the world.  Lent simply gave shape to what I already sensed: that discipline is not a burden but a quiet form of freedom, and that small, steady acts of intention at the table and in prayer can reshape a life from the inside out.

 

Time Blindness.

Once upon a time, my spouse was the President of our condominium association.  He was the designated point‑man for every vendor, handyman, contractor, and the property manager.  And without fail, something out there seemed to decide that the exact moment we sit down to eat was the perfect time for someone to call him.

It didn’t matter when we ate:

11:00 AM?  Phone rings.

12:15 PM?  Phone rings.

4:45 PM?  Phone rings.

7:30 AM?  Phone rings, because apparently breakfast is also fair game, too.

It was as if people had a sixth sense for when a fork was about to touch a plate.

Even the other board and committee members who should have known better seemed to be compelled to call precisely when we were eating, and not all of these calls were emergencies, either.

Appointments were no better.  If someone was scheduled to arrive at 9:00 AM, they absolutely, without hesitation, called at 8:15 AM to announce:

“I’m here.”

Not “I’m on my way.”  Not “I’ll be there soon.”  No.  They were already standing outside like a time‑traveling courier from the future.

And as if the mealtime ambushes weren’t enough, his phone also believed in a 24‑hour discipline of interruption.  Text messages arrived at 5:55 AM, before the sun, before coffee, before a bagel, and texts continued rolling in as late as 10:30 PM when we were just about to drift off to Sleepyland.  Ostensibly, the entire world has silently agreed that he was available at all hours, like a one‑man emergency hotline for condo‑related existential and non-crises.  I was convinced the only time his phone doesn’t buzz is when nothing in particular is going on in our home.  Oh.  It doesn’t ring or buzz when we are at Mass; our phones are turned off completely then.

It got to a point that I was convinced our condo was either:

  • bugged;
  • under surveillance by a secret intelligence agency; or
  • being monitored by people with remote‑viewing abilities who can see the moment we sit down with plates of food.

I’m kidding, and honestly, who knows?  But if someone knocked on the door the next time we even thought about lunch . . . I would’ve d just laughed.  I continued to laugh it off.

The most important part of this hilarity is that my spouse and the rest of the board at the time were doing an outstanding job getting the formerly poorly self-managed association back on the right track.  They were righting the ship . . .

 

Unexpected Kindness (1)

Not long ago, we stopped at our favorite little diner for a simple breakfast.  The place was alive with the familiar bustle of morning— clattering dishes, the soft murmur of conversations, waitresses moving briskly from table to table with warmth and admirable organization.  Even in the busyness, there was a sense of comfort, the kind that comes from being in a place where people know how to take care of one another in small, steady, and professional ways.

When we finished eating, we waited for our bill, chatting and enjoying the last sips of coffee.  After a few minutes, we flagged down our waitress.  She hurried over with an apologetic smile, but instead of handing us the check, she delivered a surprise: another patron — already gone by then — had paid our bill in full.

For a moment, we were silent— stunned, in fact.  Then we laughed, not out of amusement but out of the sheer delight that comes when kindness breaks into an ordinary morning.  There was no explanation, no name, no chance to say thank you.  Just a quiet act of generosity left behind like a blessing.

Without hesitation, we asked our waitress for another table’s bill, and we silently paid it.  It felt like the natural response, almost as if the kindness had momentum of its own.  I like to imagine that it continued moving through the diner that day — one table of patrons blessing another, and another, until the whole place was strewn with grace.

Experiences like this renew my faith in people.  They remind me that kindness is not extinct, though it might be rare these days – it just isn’t always readily visible.  It simply tends to work quietly, without fanfare, often unnoticed unless you happen to be the one receiving it.  And yet, these small acts have a way of softening the heart.  Moments like this remind me that God does work through the hands of strangers.  It reminds me that there are good people out in the world, especially on the days when discouragement creeps in.

There have been times when I’ve given gifts or extended gestures only to receive silence in return.  I admit, there are times when I grow discouraged.  I’ve given gifts that were never acknowledged, and extended gestures that were met with silence.  No acknowledgment, no thank you.  It’s easy to conclude that some people were never taught gratitude or the joy of giving in those situations.  It can feel disheartening to offer something freely and receive nothing in return — not even a basic nod of recognition.

But then something like the breakfast that morning happens, and my perspective shifts.  I remember that for every person who forgets to express appreciation, there is someone else who goes out of their way to brighten a someone’s morning and day.  For every moment of grave disappointment, there is a moment of kindness and decency waiting quietly around the corner.

Kindness doesn’t need applause.  It doesn’t require a spotlight or a stage.  It thrives in the unnoticed spaces of everyday life — in a paid bill, a held door, a handwritten letter, a phone call, a warm smile, a greeting card, a small sacrifice made without expectation.  These gestures may seem insignificant, but they carry a peaceful power. They remind us that we belong to one another, that goodness is still possible, and that the world is held together not by grand gestures but by countless small ones.

And perhaps that is the most hopeful truth of all: kindness usually is contagious.  One generous act inspires another, and another, until a single moment of goodness becomes a chain of kindliness stretching farther than we will ever see.

We left the diner that morning with more than our breakfast paid by someone else and us paying for someone else’s.  I left with renewed belief in hope.  For every moment of ingratitude I’ve encountered, there are countless unseen acts of goodness happening all around us.  God is still at work in the world, often through the simplest gestures.

And perhaps that is the heart of it: kindness is a small echo of Divine Love.  When we give it freely, we become instruments of grace.  When we receive it humbly, we are reminded that kindness often arrives in unexpected ways— sometimes in the form of a stranger who quietly pays your bill and slips out the door before you even know his name.

 

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