Okay, you know the Wilbo is depressed when he shows up at Russ's for dinner. I want comfort food so much I simply asked my waitress to bring me a dinner. "So, do you like fish?" Nah, that defeats the purpose, takes risk out of the equation. Straight up, just pick my dinner. The top manager just stopped by to affirm: "You want us to pick two sides, too?" Oh yes. I'm not quite being the Diceman here but close. Maybe I'm longing for my father's table, upon which dinner never failed. Surely you can guess my mother answering any protests: "What do you think this is? A restaurant?" Well, here I am in a restaurant wishing I could return to a family table, any table we gathered to between the years of 1966 to 1981, my years of free eating, freeloading off my dad. This includes, as a golden memory, my father's mother's table. Imagine tall red antique glasses filled with buttermilk and polished silver, Sunday pork chops or chicken breaded and broiled to perfection. My grandmother and grandfather on my Finnish side had a frugal character, and my grandmother cooked and served for a doctor's family in Detroit's Boston-Edison district. Grandma Aino brought the same level of skill and care to her Sunday table, every Sunday for a lifetime of Sundays. I am happy to report my waitress has brought me Chicken Monterey, which looks like smothered chicken and is a stretch for me.
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