Toby Goodshank Original Art 2025

Life with Chicken and Broccoli

Author: Jimmy

  • America’s Oldest Park, Lake Compounce

    America’s Oldest Park, Lake Compounce

    My son and I had talked about doing an amusement park trip, and we ended up choosing Lake Compounce. It’s just the right distance from our house and the right size for a 13-year-old boy who outgrew Quassy Amusement Park some time ago.

    Honestly, I was hesitant to go. Maybe I’m getting old. I just didn’t feel like going on any rides and getting mangled up. We checked the weather on Sunday, and it looked good for Monday. We went back and forth. I told him he should go to the pool with his friend and I’d just go to work. But he has his Flea Market madness way of negotiating and re-negotiating a price or getting what he wants.

    I got up and went outside to have my coffee, grounding my feet in the grass and enjoying the quiet morning scene. The calm before the storm is something I love. It gives me a chance to reconnect with what’s important. As I slowly sipped my brew, I thought about his age and how many more times he might even ask me to do something like this with him. In just three more years he’ll be driving, like his sister, who was going to spend the day at the pool with friends. There are no guarantees and no tomorrows. That’s all a false hope and a mismanagement of human perception.

    After the spark of affirmation, I speedily finished my cup and went inside to tell him. He knew I had been on the fence, so when I told him, he wasn’t sure if I was serious. Once he realized I was, he came out of his room to confirm, and I was so happy to see he was still that excited.

    We had about an hour to get our stuff together. We wanted to be on the road by 10 a.m. so we could arrive by 11 a.m. for the park opening. We got ready quickly, and it’s always easier for the guys to get out the door. Driving up I-84, another trip, another adventure. Suddenly the dreaded red line of traffic appeared on our GPS after Exit 13. I thought we’d only hit some traffic in Waterbury. After an 11-minute delay due to completely unnecessary roadwork that never seems to get worked on, we made it through and arrived at 11:05.

    For some reason, our GPS never brings us to the main entrance. We always have to ignore its instructions or we’ll end up at the employee gate. We finally got in line to enter the parking lot. I had already purchased our tickets and parking pass, but none of the signs indicated where pre-paid guests should go until the last second, when we were stuck in the wrong lane. We got passed by a guy who cut across two lanes of traffic to jump ahead. What made this creature even worse was that his initial payment failed, and he had to get out his debit card and punch in a code.

    Finally, after the traffic and the line-cutters, we parked in section C2 on this warm summer morning. We quickly walked the half-mile tunnel path and made our way to the entrance of Lake Compounce. We were excited and deliberated how busy it would be. It turned out to be busier than expected, but most of the crowd seemed to be heading for the water park which made sense.

    For $34.99 each, plus $25 for parking, we got a full day at both the regular amusement park and the water park, all for under $100.

    We rented a large locker to hold our towels and other water park necessities. We took a right and started our Father and Son field trip with the park’s bigger rides.

    We began with the Wildcat, their mid-level wooden roller coaster. We had done this one before and remembered getting a little banged up. But this time, sitting in the middle of the train, or maybe thanks to a newer cart, we had a smoother and fun start to the day. The kids behind us were screaming so loudly it felt like they were on a completely different ride.

    Then it was on to Down Time, the drop tower, which quickly confirmed whether our stomachs were ready for the day. As we shot up and dropped down, we had a beautiful view of the park and surrounding hills. The other two big coasters, Phobia and Zoomerang, were exciting. Unfortunately for me, not knowing the turns and fighting the momentum left my aging body taking some hard hits to my equilibrium. I rallied though, and we took a break to make a solid purchase: the all-day plastic drink cup for $17.99, which let us refill with Pepsi products and water all day. On this 90-degree day, it was worth every penny.

    My favorite ride of the day was Thunder N’ Lightning, a giant swing that makes you feel like a kid getting pushed high into the sky. My son loved it all. One of his favorites was the Ghost Hunt, a haunted house ride with light guns where you compete for the highest score. The first time we did it, I didn’t pay attention to the target colors and got destroyed. But this time, I was ready to go after the purple targets. Room after room, I thought I was winning. I was, for a while. But in the last room, he pulled away and beat me by 30,000 points. Even after a second attempt, I was soundly beaten. He was thrilled to be the camp champ.

    A special shout-out to Boulder Dash, which is the most thrilling wooden coaster I can remember ever being on. It’s an old wooden coaster and appears weathered and worn as you view it from the wooden deck before getting on, even though it was built in 2000. The ride is extremely thrilling in its own right, but the creaks and shakes of the wooden structure definitely add levels to the ride. We both, young and old, came off this ride shook with a nice dull headache for our trouble.

    We walked the park looking for something decent to eat. After a full loop, we ended up back at Wildcat Grill for a double cheeseburger. The food was fine. It would be nice to throw in a few healthy options, but based on this slice of Americana we traversed today, I’m sure it doesn’t make any fiscal sense.

    After confirming he was all set with the amusement park side, we made our way over to the water park, which was definitely busier, especially as the temperature climbed. We lathered up with sunscreen and hit my all-time favorite, the Lazy River. I have to say, the Lazy River here is well managed. They have staff controlling the flow of guests, helping people on, and enforcing the one-lap rule. They even built a tube ride in the middle that drops you into another section of the river. Since I consider myself somewhat of a connoisseur, I have imagined similar when designing my own one day.

    The river was calm, and we floated along, deciding not to wait for the inner-tube ride. I told my son to pretend we didn’t know what was going on and try to sneak past the attendants. A young staff member eventually told us to get off, but when he saw how long the line was, he said, “The line looks big, so just keep going.” A win. We continued our second lap like the big-time rule breakers we were.

    We spent some time in the United Nations wave pool, where everyone got along gently rolling in the chlorine blue waves. My son hit a few more water rides while I found a lounge chair and waited as he went to a less crowded section to try all three variations of the body slide tubes.

    Finally, with our fill of fun, we made our way out of the park. It was another amazing day because I got to spend it with my son. I’m grateful for this time, especially now, during what feels like an ever-shrinking window to do things like this together.

    One day, he’ll be grown and off chasing his own life, and these chances will be fewer and farther between. I hope he carries these memories with him. I hope he smiles when he thinks back on days like this. And maybe one day, he’ll be the one sipping coffee in the morning, deciding whether to take his own kid to the park.

    If he does, I hope he goes.

  • Restaurant Review: Lucia Ristorante – New Milford, CT

    Restaurant Review: Lucia Ristorante – New Milford, CT

    It was a beautiful Friday night on the green in New Milford as we made our way to Lucia Ristorante, located on historic Bank Street. The street feels like a scene out of 1950s America, with old-school theaters, storefront businesses, and residential apartments above.

    We were heading out to celebrate our friend’s birthday with our wildly successful, humorous, glorious, good-looking couples group. The group used to be bigger but has now been suitably curated to magnificence by removing some malignancies that once threatened the whole.

    Having grown a bit burnt out on our own town’s dining scene, we were looking for a nice spot that still respected the golden radius of restaurants, which must stay within 30 minutes of home.

    Lucia’s is an Italian restaurant which, according to its own website, describes itself as a gem of a place where head chef Antonio can please any member of your family. After my second visit, I don’t dispute the first claim. And as long as the second refers strictly to food, I can get behind that too.

    The restaurant layout spans two levels, and I prefer the second. Fortunately, both times we’ve visited, we were seated upstairs. I think it’s due to our group size, which has been on the larger side. The upstairs dining area is nicer than the downstairs, and both levels include a bar.

    Our first interaction was with the Water Person, who asked if tap water was acceptable. This always feels like a Grey Poupon moment to me. It’s the phrasing, like are you trash who wants tap water, or someone worthy of bottled or sparkling water sourced from an Italian cave where an old woman has been washing family linens for 100 generations. We got the tap water. Sorry, Momma Leonie.

    The menu has several items that interest me, and they always offer some excellent specials as well.

    When we sit down, our group tends to split between the gentlemen and the ladies. The boys usually talk about professions and sports, or, in this case, one of us meeting the world-renowned Tom Brady with pictures to prove it. The ladies dive into the gossip, the juicy bits, skin color palettes, and what the kids have been up to.

    Bread service was solid. A nice fluffy dinner roll was served with cold, not spreadable butter, olive oil, and a small dish of pecorino cheese. My favorite touch was the homemade giardiniera, pickled vegetables that tasted great on the bread.

    For appetizers, I ordered the Calamari Lucia, which came sautéed with beans, arugula, and cherry peppers in a white tomato broth. We also had a special, prosciutto-wrapped something. I can’t fully recall, writing this a few days later, but there were some vegetables involved. The calamari, which was the star, was a little chewy but very tasty. The prosciutto-wrapped mystery bites were also good, though neither dish was a showstopper.

    For my entrée, I was torn between the black spaghetti and the seafood paella. I went with the black spaghetti and felt confident either choice would have made me happy. The squid ink pasta came with Gulf shrimp, sea scallops, mushrooms, cherry tomatoes, and arugula in a cream sauce. The dish was excellent. The pasta was perfectly cooked and well seasoned. The cream sauce was delicious and not too heavy. The seafood was the star and was tender and perfectly cooked.

    Our waitress did a commendable job. Everything that came out looked excellent and would be worth trying on a return visit.

    Even though the entrées were generous portions, we still made room for dessert. My wife had already informed the table that Lucia’s has excellent desserts, including several multi-layer cakes. She picked the pistachio layer cake, which we’ve had before and knew was good, and paired it with coffee. I went with a decaf cappuccino.

    At some point, the owner dimmed the lights. In hindsight, this may have been a gentle warning that they were closing soon. We interpreted it as ambiance, setting the mood, which, as my friend astutely predicted, I would absolutely include in this blog post.

    We happily continued our conversations as time drifted by. Eventually, we gathered our things and made our way outside, still laughing into the night.

    The air was warm, the stars were out, and the streets of Bank Street felt like a movie set with a 1950s green Ford truck parked outside. There is something timeless about a summer night spent with people who know you, make you laugh, and genuinely enjoy your company. Nights like these remind me that good food is just the backdrop. The real magic is the connection, being together.

    Friendship, laughter, stories passed back and forth like bread at the table. It was all there. We stood outside for a while, not wanting to break the spell, just grateful for the kind of evening that lingers long after the last plate is cleared.

    Final Verdict: 8.75/10

  • Review: Walmart Supercenter – Middletown, NY

    Review: Walmart Supercenter – Middletown, NY

    Norman Rockwell’s Nightmare

    After our nostalgic dinner at Outback Steakhouse, we needed to grab a few supplies we’d forgotten for our overnight stay at the baseball tournament. And when in doubt, you can always count on Walmart. They say the average American lives just 4.2 miles from one. The blessings of unimpeded capitalism.

    We arrived at the Walmart Supercenter in Middletown, NY, around 9:30 p.m., expecting a quiet scene. Instead, we stumbled into something closer to a chaotic night market. The parking lot was packed. People were loitering around their cars like it was a social event. For a moment, I wondered if we’d accidentally shown up for a midnight console release, with eager fans waiting for their chance to buy.

    But no. Instead, I thought of Al Pacino in Heat, describing “the dregs and detritus of human life” circling the toilet bowl, waiting to be flushed.

    As always, I scoped out an open section of the lot. I didn’t want to park too far off and draw attention, just a strategic space near the Garden Center. My son and I moved quickly toward the entrance. My wife trailed behind, thanks to her shorter stride, but we kept the group together.

    The tone was set almost immediately. A couple entered just ahead of us; him dressed like someone in a “white trash male” Halloween costume, and her in an outfit that led me to believe, rightly or wrongly, she was a hired professional. It was hard not to assume a transactional nature to their night out.

    Inside, we were smacked with the unmistakable smell of urine. I half-expected to see someone relieving themselves in a corner or a bathroom door swinging wildly off its hinges. But there was nothing; no culprit, no bathroom, just the stench. The greeter didn’t greet. He stood stiffly like a late-night club bouncer deciding whether we were worth the risk.

    Still, once inside the belly of the beast, things felt oddly familiar. That gentle blue-and-white color scheme of Walmart had a strange way of calming the fight-or-flight system. We got down to business. Band-Aids for my son’s leg. Some forgotten essentials. This place was massive; easily the biggest Walmart we’d ever seen. Fortunately, the first-aid section was just to the left.

    As we gathered our items, we watched a group of young teenagers spraying perfume liquids on each other while their dazed, over-medicated parent enjoyed a late-night Dr. Pepper, hunched over a cart like they were on mile 23 of a grocery marathon.

    My wife was ready to leave. But my son, Elroy, wanted to explore the place he now referred to as the Mecca of Commerce. So we walked, partly to digest the Kookaburra Wings still testing our stomachs. Inevitably, we ended up in the video game aisle, where we saw our old friends from the entrance. The man in the costume and his late-night lady. He was trying to buy a game, and had sent his companion to find an employee to unlock the case.

    There was something weirdly honest about it. Taking your go-to escort to Walmart on a Saturday night for the Girlfriend Experience, capped off with some light retail therapy. Buying video games together. In a way, this man was my white trash spirit animal. Thank God I’m married, because I could almost understand the appeal. Cost-effective. Low maintenance. Fun.

    Perhaps I had this guy all wrong. I found myself wondering if he had stock tips. Maybe he’s the best accountant in Orange County. He probably runs a wellness clinic and helps fatherless kids set up Roth IRAs for their future. The light bulb of imaginary musings dimmed as I was pulled back to reality by the cold glow of the self-checkout kiosk, prompting me for payment.

    Walmart, in all its fluorescent, urine-scented glory, delivers what no curated Instagram feed ever could: truth. uncut, unwashed, unbothered. Where else can you see a budget-conscious couple’s version of romance, a greeter playing nightclub security, and teenagers engaged in what can only be described as a diabetic late-night shower of perfume?

    In the end, we accomplished our mission. And we got something better than supplies: an unfiltered snapshot of America after dark.

  • WWIII

    WWIII

    Monday and this week are shaping up to be a scorched-earth situation. President Trump has bombed Iran’s nuclear program. Three sites which I’m sure the Administration spent the last few weeks perfecting the pronunciation of,  have reportedly been destroyed. The justification? Either he felt it was a good time, or he spoke to the janitor at his son’s university who heard something from a friend. The one thing we know is that it was his decision, his leadership, and he’s not going to waste time like they did with Iraq, having the CIA make up imaginary weapons of mass destruction.

    Then you check social media, and apparently the sites weren’t destroyed. Or the uranium was moved days ago. Everyone knew. Everyone was informed. It was a waste of time.

    He didn’t consult Congress. Now they want to impeach him again. Can’t these nitwits get anything right? Who even knows what the truth is anymore; the law, the procedure, or the unwritten rule? The Constitution and the Unconstitution-tution. Maybe they declare; it’s time to amend the War Powers Resolution and roll back executive power.

    Members of the Armed Services Committee were notified via X. Nobody knows anything. The LA Sheriff’s Department felt compelled to tweet that they stand with Iran, only to delete it moments later.

    What do our allies think? What did they know? What will they do about it? You flip through the news and it feels like every channel is reading from the same script. ChatGPT has practically written the entire conflict. We’re now on the brink of World War III, as a small Middle Eastern country declares the Western powers can’t use their waterways. It’s starting to feel like a more absurd, 1984. Today we’re at war with the East—the Middle East.

    Russia is drawing red lines. Chinese memes declare they’ll never accept U.S. tariffs. Who’s writing the content? What’s the point? You end up with micro-tensions and microaggressions in your own mind. Subtle, constant undercurrents that unravel your moments of peace, triggering inflammation which has now become the root of modern illness. Turn it off. Shut it down.

    We no longer trust traditional media. And if we do, we must be fools. We’ve built our own East and West propaganda machines, warring with each other. What hope is there when truth is dead? The anchor stares blankly into the camera, floats through a teleprompter in Prozac euphoria, and delivers the one follow-up question meant to lull you into thinking there’s any critical thought happening at all.

    Then come the four-star generals, three-star generals, ex-CIA analysts, porn stars, New York Policy Institute fellows, brothers, geniuses, and baby-faced policy wonks like “Little Baby Billy Freeman” rambling on to soothe our nerves or stoke the fires in this, our season of discontent.

    As the Earth turns and we wait for blowback, we brace for the response. Unfortunately we still have to get up on Monday and to work. We pay our taxes. We pay our bills. We keep our kids in AAU baseball while the people of the world, collectively allow these man-children to lead us to the edge. The Doomsday Clock ticks two seconds to midnight.

    What can we do? What should we do?

    As the fish in The Cat in the Hat asks the children at the end: What would you do?

  • Father’s Day 2025

    Father’s Day 2025

    I asked my kids for a parade around me while I sat and drank my coffee. My son was quick to oblige, and my daughter was slower to follow after several prompts and me saying I needed to see some of those multi-thousand-dollar dance moves we’ve been paying for over the last 12-plus years.

    After a few rotations around the couch with various high steps, hand waves, and general silliness, the children came to a stop. Then I asked them for their rendition of the Von Trapp Family’s good night song and the light-hearted and fast Lonely Goat marionette show. We had a great laugh and reveled in the silliness of the moment.

    I love this time, and I love being their father.

    We then had to complete the Daily Stoic, a tradition now in our home, reading one of Ryan Holiday’s carefully curated stoic quotes, followed by his interpretation. We’ve done this consistently for several years. We do fall behind on the day-to-day reading and end up with these longer catch-up sessions on the weekend. This particular Father’s Day included over a week’s worth.

    I’m never impatient or in a rush during this time. I love reading the wisdom of these old sages and trying to find ways to connect it to my kids’ lives. Even reading this book now for the fourth time through, there is always new meaning to divine as we grow, mature, and age through life. Also just taking time to talk about things, to hear what they think, and be there together.

    I know that for the kids, sometimes it feels like a chore, maybe more than sometimes. I can see it when they lose focus or drift off into their own thoughts. Today, my son decided to stand up and move over to the mantle to pick up a baseball, which he immediately dropped. I rebuked him:
    “Can’t you just sit still for a few minutes while we do these?”

    It was all quickly forgotten. There was no punishment. We returned to the book.

    Today on Father’s Day, I get to officially be in charge, so we went slow and we took our time.

    We took turns reading the lessons, day by day. They’re both fantastic readers, and if one reads, I’ll ask the other what they thought it was about or how they’d apply it. Most days, to push through, they’ve become masters of repackaging, paraphrasing, and just regurgitating it back to me.

    After so many years, the base principle is the same:
    We focus on what is in our control and let go of what is not.

    I know, for myself and for them, that this is truly useful, practical, and meaningful information. It can and should be used in all parts of life. But I also know that only through daily and consistent repetition do the lessons and ideas really take root.

    I wait for that one glorious moment when they step back in a stressful situation, analyze it clearly, and make that cardinally guided decision; to be the good people I know them to be.

    I hope they will continue to find this wisdom meaningful as they grow, and that one day, they will pass it on to their own children. I know that when I’m a grandfather, I’ll still be doing this with their kids. I hope we’ll do it together whenever we can and that we’ll make the time.

    I think about my father’s consistent lessons, the things Dad would say, how he worked hard to be a good role model. He’d often say he was “constantly instructing,” providing constant vigilance against the dark arts. I’m especially reminded of him this first Father’s Day since he passed. His ways, his sayings, the phrases I knew him by and I can still hear them in my head.

    I remember when I would ask, “Dad, if you could talk to anyone from history, anyone at all, who would it be?”
    His answer was simple: “My dad.”
    I never could understand the answer. With all the amazing historical people, why he chose his father.

    I’m reminded of an exchange student party I attended at UConn. There was a priest there for some reason who described life as the tapestry of our lives, woven together by the people we love and who love us in return. The things they say and the places they hold inside of us remain, blending into this eternal tapestry we’re all a part of, stretching back to the beginning.

    It felt heavy at the time, surrounded by a nighttime fire and strangers all sharing in the moment, and it has stuck with me.

    Now slightly more than halfway through the average life, you reminisce, ponder, and travel around different paths. The midlife crisis of achieving the goals of society only to find out that most of them carry no weight. The greatness you never achieved. Dreams you never chased. The what-ifs you question. I move to the end and see my entire life.

    I know and have always known that being a father is the greatest gift. To be a great father is greatness.  It’s my vocation and the thing I take the most pride in. I’m grateful, thankful, and appreciative every day for the souls God chose me to be a father to, and I try in earnest not to take that for granted.

    Every day, I look to honor this gift by continuing to show up and be the example of a “good man” that my father was.  That’s what Father’s Day is. A thread pulled from the tapestry, handed down and tied with care.

    I don’t need a big celebration or the perfect day. I just want the time, the laughs, the moments that stack into something lasting.

    That’s enough.
    That’s greatness.
    That’s everything.

  • Restaurant Review: Bottega – Bethel, CT

    Restaurant Review: Bottega – Bethel, CT

    It was Friday evening, and we were looking for something quick but still with that night-out vibe. Not somewhere we’d sit around for hours, willing the time away. A spot we could get in and out of depending on what time my son needed to be picked up from his friend’s birthday party. After some thoughtful deliberation, we opted for dinner at Bottega in Bethel, CT.

    What I like about Bottega is the pizza and, sometimes, a few of the apps. They used to have a charred octopus dish with sausage, fingerling potatoes, and arugula. But they got rid of it, probably because most people around here just want deep-fried comfort food and couldn’t care less about anything with tentacles and greens.

    The space has that rustic Albanian-meets-industrial-steampunk wood theme that’s everywhere now in bars, pubs, and mid-level restaurants. We got lucky and landed one of the booths by the bar, but it wasn’t exactly a win. They were all open, and it was already 6:45 p.m. The bar area was more happening, with friends and lovers recreating a well-shot B-roll from a good Hollywood movie.

    Bottega doesn’t do specials, and the menu stays pretty much the same.

    For tonight’s exciting adventure, we ordered the Cup and Char Pepperoni. My wife explained that the “cup” is what the pepperoni does when the heat hits it. It curls into a cup. The “char” is what happens to the toilet bowl later that night. I guess the name refers to a style of pepperoni that cups and chars at the same time. Like a talented ass-kicker with only one leg.

    The other pie we ordered was the G.O.A.T., which had goat cheese, pistachios, garlic cream, red onion, and a drizzle of local honey. Solid combo, but I don’t know if it’s the greatest of all time.

    To balance it out, I ordered a fresh green they call the Quinoa Salad, just to not go completely to hell with myself.

    One shining star at Bottega has always been the mixed drinks. They’ve consistently made one of the best takes on an Old Fashioned I’ve had. Even with new bartenders rotating in, the recipe has stayed delicious and true.

    All the food came out together. That made sense, or maybe it didn’t. The server didn’t ask how we wanted it paced, so fine. His name was Fuddy Duddy, and Fuddy did his Duddy best. That meant drinks came out one at a time and slowly. No rizz, no personality. His face is already dissolving, lost to the hourglass sands of the weekend.

    The pizzas looked great. My one ongoing issue with Bottega is that they never salt or season their food enough. I think of all those chef shows where contestants are constantly hammered for not tasting their food. With pizza, maybe you can’t grab a full slice to sample, but you can taste the components. And yeah, bland. We asked for salt, since it’s never on the table here, and it took a solid 10 minutes “Where’s Waldo” search to appear. Returning with the smallest salt shaker and with the least amount of sodium I’ve ever seen allowable by “CT Statute 238.5 Salt Shaker Rules and Regs, subsection 2a, salt gram amounts per shaker.”

    Once the salt arrived, everything was good. The flavors started to come alive and I was able to do my pizza happy dance, just a little shimmy and shack allowed by people over 40. The salad was fine, nothing too standoutish about salad even with the multi-colored quinoa.

    Heavily carbed up, we decided to forgo the dessert. We wrapped things up with a round of decaf cappuccinos, except they weren’t cappuccinos at all. More like some espresso-coffee hybrid with a splash of milk, but they were HOT. I’ve promised that next time we go, I’m going to be wearing a gold chain with my own personal salt shaker.

    Final Verdict: 6.95 out of 10

  • Restaurant Review: Leo’s – Southbury, CT

    Restaurant Review: Leo’s – Southbury, CT

    Rolling up to Leo’s in Southbury, CT, at 10:30 for that late breakfast love. From Main Street, the location is tucked away, requiring a turn onto Poverty Road. On this beautiful Thursday morning, there were already diners enjoying meals on the front patio.

    After turning into the complex and navigating around the building, it’s clear the space was converted from some type of office into a restaurant. The first thing that caught my attention was the front flight of steps, which probably keeps some of the Heritage Village crowd away.

    Inside, the restaurant is quaint, though the motif is a bit unclear, perhaps a beefed-up diner vibe in an office setting, featuring high ceilings, neon lights, faux wood beams, and an assortment of knickknacks and bric-a-brac. The main dining area has tables in the center surrounded by booths. My friend, who arrived earlier, chose a table with half booth seating and half chairs in the bar area, which was empty except for us.

    Previewing the menu beforehand, several items caught my eye, particularly the entire section dedicated to “Leo’s Famous Breakfast Specials.” Next time, I plan to try “Eight is Enough,” aptly named as it features eight ingredients served with their signature bocca bread and a fresh fruit mini tower. This visit, I opted for Leo’s Special Omelet, which included sautéed onions, mozzarella cheese, bacon, home fries, and rye toast. I also added my usual side of coleslaw and a decaf coffee.

    The servers were nice enough, nothing particularly memorable but also nothing to complain about.

    The food arrived quickly and was plentiful. The hot sauce of choice at Leo’s is Frank’s. Overall, the meal was very good, with the omelet stealing the show, nicely prepared with a generous portion of bacon. Personally, I would have preferred the onions to be more sautéed, but it was still tasty. The home fries and rye toast were good, though nothing standout.

    My coleslaw was initially forgotten by both the server and myself until I noticed the missing texture and crunch. When it arrived, it came in a small plastic cup; a slightly larger bowl would have been preferable. However, it was tasty, well seasoned, and slightly on the wetter side. The value and quantity of the food was also a notch above.

    By 11:30, the early bird lunch crowd was beginning to make its way in. I was abruptly knocked forward as a walker with wheels hit my chair, indicating it was time to leave. There was actually a line of people waiting on the stairs as we left. We enjoyed our brief visit to Leo’s and will definitely be back to try some of those other specials.

    Final Verdict: 7/10

  • Where the Wild Things Are

    Where the Wild Things Are

    Sitting out on my back porch, I hear CCR playing in my mind: “Got to sit down, take a rest on the porch.” The lyrics feel right, but the melody is too fast-paced for this early June morning. The weather shifted from spring to summer like one of those old cartoons, where the seasons spin on a giant wheel and suddenly land on summer. The big, beautiful sun shows up without warning and says, “Good morning.”

    Last year, and the year before that, I hardly spent any time outside. Just enough to set up the tables, chairs, and umbrellas one day, only to take them down at the end of the season. We had the Fourth of July outside. It was the last outdoor barbecue my father would attend before he passed at the end of the month. In many ways, he was already gone. The strong man I had known was whittled away by worry, age, and the final blow of losing his wife. Five years her senior, he had always feared he’d go first. He was the one with the more obvious health issues, and the one we all worried about.

    When I looked at him then, he always seemed so far away. Already gone. Caught between the living and where he longed to be. By her side.

    The air is warm and dewy. My deck faces west, so the morning sun hasn’t made its appearance yet. I walk outside with my decaf coffee, filled with the latest YouTube podcaster health elixirs. I sit down in my reclining deck chair with the footrest extended, take a deep breath, and let it fill my lungs. I’m so glad I chose to come outside instead of staying in. It feels like a vacation. The trees sway gently in the breeze, and the morning animals, birds and insects have already started their day. Buzzing. Flying.

    I think of the Sermon on the Mount and the Bible verse:
    “Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they?”

    The verse reminds me to be calm and present. It helps quiet that part of my mind always trying to worry, work, or plan for tomorrow. In this moment, I have everything I need. I am at peace.

    I lean further back in my chair and look up. Each day we’re given the most magnificent, glorious sky, yet how rarely I remember to look up or give thanks. I hear the birds chirping, each with their own song, their own language. They gather things for their nests or food for themselves. They call out to their friends and family. And they pay nothing for a cellular phone plan.

    A kamikaze bug decides to land on me, only to be swatted away or crushed as my attention snaps into focus like a laser. I had been drifting for a moment, and it was that not-so-gentle reminder to stay. Stay present.

    Still, I can’t help but lean back again, thinking fondly of other times spent outside. The only thing that could make this moment more complete would be sharing it with the people I love. It seems strange that we don’t take more advantage of mornings like this, that we allow them to slip by. I would have liked to share this one with my father. Before everything weighed him down, he loved the simple things. A good chair by the fire. A patch of sun. The sound of birds. The city kid who used to wander into the woods with his cowboy hat.

    I return to the moment as I take the last sip of my coffee and think how little the birds ask for, and how much they seem to receive. The birds don’t check calendars. The trees don’t rush. The sun rises whether we’re looking or not; greeting all of us with another opportunity, another chance to notice.

    And maybe that’s the point.
    Life is always offering itself, waiting for you to finally see. We just have to step outside.