We went to the park this afternoon and followed that up with lunner at some tiny little place a couple of blocks away. I ordered two quesadillas (have I ever mentioned that quesadillas are really nothing more than tacos with melted cheese in them?), judging by the cheap price that I was ordering two single quesadillas. Of course when the food came out I received two plates with a total of six meaty cheesy delicious quesadillas on them. I ate them all.
Ali and I ordered a couple of beers and then watched as the waiter walked outside, checked the tire pressure in his scooter, and drove off. He returned a few minutes later with a big bag of bread, but no beer. We waited a minute then waved him over. “Pacificos?” Lightbulb flashed as he rolled his head back. He then stepped away from our table, grabbed two empty bottles from a couple seated nearby, and walked out the door. A couple more minutes and he walked in, confirmed with us once again that we wanted two, then used a knife to pop the caps. And that right there is how you run a Mexican restaurant—keep the inventory low.
Lowe is completely infatuated with Ouest. He mimics everything she does right now. If she has a drink of water he starts coughing. Oh, coughing means he’s thirsty. What? If she decides to practice her jumping, by god he’s going to jump too. He does everything she does, and he wants everything she has—which is going to start to pose some issues. We live on a sailboat after all—we don’t have room for two of everything. We barely have room for two kids. We might have to get rid of one. Decisions, decisions.