lunch in Connecticut (m)

My godmother lives in Connecticut.  She is a beautiful woman, inside and out.  Shirley Temple adorable--high cheekbones, dimples, unwrinkled skin (even at 80 years old).

She hasn't been her vivacious self lately and this concerns my mother.  They have known each other since the day my godmother was brought home from the hospital as an infant and placed in my mother's arms.  My mother has felt protective towards her ever since.

"Let's go to Connecticut tomorrow," my mother tells me on Monday night.  "I want to see if L is okay."

After rearranging my entire day at the last minute, I say okay.  I drop H off at school at 7:30 a.m., head to the tile place to return the samples (I'm re-doing my shower stall), drop H's skates off at the rink/talk to Miss Massachusetts for a bit (she is a skater), get the car washed, get cash from the ATM, get gas, fight rush-hour traffic and arrive at my mother's at 9:02 a.m. "You're late," she says by way of a greeting (I said I'd be there at 9:00).

The drive down is uneventful despite the rain.  My mother sighs.  She imagined a picture-perfect fall day and is not happy that the weather didn't cooperate.  I'm starving as I've only eaten a 2 point sweet and salty bar knowing that Connecticut will be a food challenge.

I told my godmother we would be there by 12 noon.  We arrive at 12:02 on the nose.  She's at the door to greet us.  "I was starting to worry!  You said you'd be here at noon!  I thought something happened!  I'm glad you're okay!"  What is it with octogenarians and punctuality?

The plan was to go to a restaurant so L wouldn't have to cook.  I notice there's a spread on the table.  Fresh, still-warm bagels, cream cheeses of all types, homemade pizzelles, seeded cookies, biscotti.  And the ubiquitous pot of coffee.  This generation cannot eat anything, even pizza, without coffee.

I ask if we're not going to lunch any longer and L says, "Of course, right after we have a snack."  I'm the only one who doesn't think this is odd.  L's granddaughter and great grandchildren (replete with nose boogers) show up to visit.  Then the son-in-law, then  my cousin.  The doll-house sized kitchen is crowded and hot. We visit and catch up on each others' lives for an hour.   I eat half of a whole wheat bagel.  3-4 points.  Ugh.  After "snack", we go to lunch.

The restaurant is an Italian place.  My mother explains I'm on WW as if I can't speak for myself.  My godmother and her family comment on my weight loss.  My mother says, "She cheats."  I feel like I'm 5 years old again.

Everyone has eggplant rollatini and pizza.  I have a giant salad with vinegar and a little olive oil.  And the ubiquitous iced tea.  I'm full if not satisfied.

We go back to my godmother's after lunch.  That's when the Italian pastries come out.  Ricotta pie, cream puff things in the shape of lobster tails and shells (I don't get the nautical theme). Rum-soaked cakes. I have a cup of tea and a seeded cookie.  To avoid eating more, I leave the table and say I want to walk outside in the backyard.

When I was a kid, my family and I used to visit Connecticut every summer.  It was like going to the country for us.  There was a working farm on the next street, but you could access it by walking straight through my cousins' backyard.  I find the old apple tree where there used to hang a wooden swing on a rope.  I get all choked up remembering my father pushing me on that swing.  I still cherish the photo of us by that tree.

The working farm is no longer.  The land was sold and houses were built.  The swing is gone.  The tree is there but in bad shape.  It no longer bears apples.  The once immense backyard looks so small to me now.

I turn back towards the house and into the kitchen filled with family, food and laughter.

I'm glad some things never change.