When I was a child living in Cincinnati, Ohio, my parents, my brother and I ate dinner out at the same restaurant almost every Sunday.
I don’t remember the name of our go-to restaurant. I do recall that Ruth was always our “server” (a term that didn’t exist then) and she knew that I would always order creamed spinach.
When our children were growing up, we cooked dinner at home except for Sunday night outings to a local Chinese restaurant or occasionally ordering pizza to go. At least that’s how I remember it.
Nowadays, it seems that our children and grandchildren eat out much more. It is a generational thing.
When Jeremy made a thirty-hour visit earlier this week, the only thing he ate at my home was an entire three-pound bag of clementines. We ate dinner out the first evening. He doesn't eat breakfast. We ate lunch out the next day in the middle of a ten-mile walk. I would have cooked a much better dinner at home the first night, but the Brazilian restaurant that we happened upon the next day served a fabulous luncheon buffet.
He was on his way to the airport by 4:30pm.
Another child’s visit that was way too short.