Category: friendship

A Saturday Night in Candlelight.

A Lesson in Dating.

My best friend and I did a little something different last Saturday night for our standing date and decided to indulge in something a bit more refined than usual.  We dressed in our best clothes, he was in a black suit and tie, me slipped into a lilac silk dress.  We set off for the most elegant Italian restaurant in our area, a place that always feels like a small escape from the ordinary.

Traffic was light, which was a surprise for a Saturday night, which brought us to the restaurant sooner than our reservation time.  We parked the car and decided that since we had about twenty minutes to spare, we would take a leisurely walk in the adjoining park that is part of the restaurant property.  The evening air was cool and fresh, and the night sky held starry constellations and a full moon.  The soft lights lit our way on the curved paved walkway, and by the time we made the full circuit, it was time to meet our reservation.

We stepped through the glass-and-wood doors and entered the lounge, which is our favorite room in the entire establishment.  A carved oak bar was well-stocked and gleamed beneath soft lighting.  Together they created a warm, inviting ambience that seemed to embrace us the moment we arrived.

A poised hostess, dressed head‑to‑toe in black and adorned with a star sapphire necklace, remembered us and greeted us with a gracious smile.  She guided us into the main dining room, where we were soon settled into a high‑backed booth.  The varnished oak table covered with a crisp white linen tablecloth held tall, elegant salt and pepper grinders, and a large votive candle flickered at its center, casting a gentle glow.  We placed our drink orders, a Peroni for Best Friend, a pinot noir for me.  Our waitress brought warm slices of fresh bread accompanied by herbed olive oil and took our orders.  I was blissfully content.  Restaurants of this caliber are rare in our area, ones that have heavy silverware, substantial furniture, chandeliers, leatherette seating, and soft, unobtrusive music that completed the atmosphere.

As we settled in, we lingered over conversation until our first course arrived: a crisp, chilled salad for Best Friend and a steaming cup of Italian Wedding Soup for me. Before long, our entrées followed.  Best Friend’s pollo con verdure and my pollo alla cacciatora, were both fragrant, beautifully plated, and still releasing curls of steam.  Our waitress completed the moment with a delicate snowfall of freshly grated Parmesan atop our entrées.  Each bite was rich and comforting, and we allowed ourselves the luxury of eating slowly, savoring both the food and our company.

Then the music began.  A pianist’s gentle melody drifted through the restaurant, subtle, unhurried, and perfectly attuned to the evening’s mood.  It wrapped itself around the room like a soft ribbon of sound, enhancing the glow of the chandeliers and the warmth of our little corner.  In that moment, with good food before us and quiet elegance all around, the night felt complete with a small reminder that even familiar rituals can become something extraordinary when shared with someone dearly loved.

 

 

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The Ease of Dishonesty.

A Lesson in Bold Dishonesty and Weakening Trust.

I am continually taken aback by the ease with which people will boldface lie, not just to me, but to anyone who happens to be standing in front of them.  These aren’t always small white lies, but more and more they are bold, unapologetic falsehoods delivered with absolute confidence.  Lying has always existed, of course, but the past five or six years have unleashed a wave of dishonesty that feels different; bolder, more shameless, and normalized.  Of course, dishonesty is nothing new; people have been lying for centuries.  Yet something about the past five or six years feels different, as if a cultural shift has loosened whatever thin thread once held personal integrity together.  The onslaught has been relentless.

I see it everywhere.  The management company personnel for our homeowner’s association lie as if it’s part of their operating manual.  Family members lie when the truth would have been easier.  Vendors lie to secure business or cover their incompleteness.  Co-workers lie to dodge accountability.  It’s as if truth has become optional, as if it was a quaint relic from another era.

What unsettles me most is not just the dishonesty itself, but the casualness of it, the speed, the confidence, and the ease of looking right in your eyes as their lies float off their lips.  The way some individuals lie as naturally as breathing, without hesitation or shame.  It makes you question how many conversations you’ve had that were built on foundations that never existed.  It makes you wonder how many times you’ve given someone the benefit of the doubt when they didn’t deserve it.

I’m left grappling with a difficult truth: trust is no longer something that can be assumed.  It must be earned, guarded, and sometimes rebuilt from scratch.  And while I can’t control the behavior of others, I can choose to remain anchored in honesty myself because in a world where lies have become effortless, telling the truth feels almost like an act of rebellion.

In the end, what troubles me greatly isn’t just the lies themselves, but the growing acceptance of them, as if honesty has become an outdated virtue rather than a basic expectation.  I can’t control the behavior of HOA managers, family members, vendors, friends, or coworkers, but I can control the standards I hold for myself.  Choosing truth in a culture that increasingly shrugs at deception feels almost radical, yet it’s the only way to keep my sanity.  If anything, the dishonesty I encounter only strengthens my resolve to remain clear‑eyed, principled, and unwilling to let other people’s falsehoods define the way I move through the world.  But in the long run, I barely trust anyone anymore.

 

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Cutting Cardboard.

We had just ordered our meal, when a party of four was seated two tables from us.

Grind.  Grind.  Grind.

“Where is that sound coming from?” I asked Best Friend as he sipped his drink.  “It sounds like somebody cutting corrugated cardboard with a serrated bread knife.”

“What’s that?”

“I hear someone cutting corrugated cardboard with a serrated bread knife.  It’s that specific of a sound.  Listen.”

Grind.  Grind.  Grind.

“It’s the dog,” Best Friend nonchalantly quipped as he put down his drink.

“Whoa!” I whispered.  I leaned over a little bit to the left and looked past Best Friend’s shoulder.  Sure enough, at the table where the party of four sat, was a Yorkie on the man’s lap, chewing on food from the man’s plate and making a sound like somebody cutting corrugated cardboard with a serrated bread knife.  Then I witnessed the man put down one of those doggie pads on the floor and set the Yorkie on it, whereby Yorkie promptly did his business.  Everyone else at that table was oblivious and didn’t bat an eye.

Ewwww.

I am not a fan of dogs or any sort of animals in restaurants and stores.  I find it dirty, and it puts the question of health codes out there.  Service dogs are okay, but not “emotional service” or those “just because I can’t live two minutes without Fluffy” animals inside stores and especially restaurants.  Bleh.

One of the grocery store chains in our area put a stop to people bringing dogs or any animals into their stores, except for service animals.  I agree with that.  And, please, no dogs in grocery carts.  I saw that exact thing at one grocery store a couple years ago.  Where have those rear ends been?  I never saw anyone wash those grocery carts, either.

It’s so gross!

 

 

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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.

 

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