Toby Goodshank Original Art 2025

Life with Chicken and Broccoli

Tag: writing

  • 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.

  • 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.

  • Nintendo Switch 2 Caper

    Nintendo Switch 2 Caper

    My son and I are avid video game collectors, and we were excited about the release of Nintendo’s new console, the Switch 2. We tried earnestly when the initial pre-order website launched, only to get frozen out and miss our chance months ago. My son threw a gentle zinger at the time, letting me know that so and so’s dad had stayed up and snagged one. The dagger through any father’s heart, losing out to Mythical Dad X who obviously cares more about his kid.

    But June 5, 2025 was my chance for redemption.

    With the help of our new AI friends, we learned that several retailers would have midnight releases online, and a few would be selling the console in-store at 12:01 AM and again when stores opened. I’m extremely line averse. I’ll do just about anything to avoid waiting in a line and have lived a life designed around avoiding the WAIT. Eating at off hours, traveling through the night, researching how to dodge lines like it’s a game. My kids are lucky to have Magic Genie Pass, Express Lane Hotel Staying Dad who makes it his mission to squeeze the most out of our time with as little waiting as possible. Maybe it stems from some childhood trauma, etched into my DNA, a nightmare of a line where everything went wrong.

    Options were limited. Best Buy was opening at 12:01 AM and the backup was Target at 8:00 AM. Sadly, we’ve lost our Gamestops in the Danbury area, and the nearest one in Trumbull, inside a mall, was guaranteed chaos.

    At first, the plan was Target. Get there by 6:00 AM. But after watching a few YouTube videos, my son started to get anxious. The lines were already being reported by local media. With limited quantities per store and only a few retailers carrying the console, he wanted to pivot. He started nudging me to head out to Best Buy that night instead. I agreed, thinking maybe we could avoid the early morning chaos.

    While watching TV with my wife, I noticed my son stealthily creeping around, checking his phone, glancing at the clock. “Maybe we should go now,” he suggested. I had originally said 10:00 PM. Two hours seemed tolerable. But he worked me down. By 8:30 we were in the car headed to Danbury.

    Taking the highway instead of backroads, we could already see the line had wrapped around the front of Best Buy. We knew they had 40 consoles available, so we figured we’d drive around to the back to assess the situation. That’s when we saw the line stretching all the way around the corner. He wanted to wait. I couldn’t do it. Three and a half hours in line with no guarantee? No thanks.

    We pivoted to Target to see if a line had started, even though they weren’t selling until 8:00 AM. Nobody was there. We took our customary stroll through our favorite sections. The Nintendo Switch display was barren, cleared out in preparation for the launch.

    We got home by 9:30 and reported to Mom that the first attempt was a bust. I wasn’t thrilled about waking up even earlier to wait in line again, and the debate started. “Please Dad, please!” My wife reminded me, “He’s a good kid.” She wasn’t wrong. How could I say no?

    Sitting there at 10:00 PM, I made a call. I’d try again at 12:01 AM online. My son was doubtful. He figured our best shot was showing up in person the next morning. Still, I logged into all the retailers: Costco, Walmart, Gamestop. Made sure my accounts were updated with payment info and mailing addresses. I knew sometimes sites upload inventory a bit early, so I kept refreshing just in case.

    My son went to bed around 11:00 PM, or so I thought. At 11:45 he rose like the living dead and wandered back in, just as I was getting my tabs organized. I gave him the phone with the Gamestop app while I took the computer.

    From 11:50 on, we were refreshing like maniacs. At 12:00, Walmart’s countdown timer hit zero. But the links were frozen. Nothing redirected. Just spinning wheels of death. As minutes passed, our hope was draining. How can we beat bots, resellers, and whoever else figured out an algorithm?

    By 12:16, we were ready to call it. My son, now even more dismayed, knew that if I stayed up past midnight, the odds of me waking up at 4:30 AM were basically zero.

    Then one last round of refreshing. Suddenly a third icon appeared on Walmart’s site, joining the two blank Switch listings. This one had an “Add” button.

    Mash. Mash. Mash. Click click click.

    Error. Out of stock.

    Refresh. “Add” again.

    Then, a new screen. We were in a queue. A little window popped up in the corner saying we’d be notified and could view or dismiss.

    We waited. Low expectations. Probably a glitch.

    And then, Eureka. A 9-minute countdown popped up. We were in. The purchase screen loaded.

    I clicked “Add to Cart.” Nothing happened. Tried again. Still nothing.

    Then I noticed it was prompting for the CVV code.

    “Get the light!” I yelled, as my son turned on his phone flashlight.

    Code entered. One final click. Successssssssss!

  • Diner Review: The Blue Colony Diner – Newtown, CT

    Diner Review: The Blue Colony Diner – Newtown, CT

    Easy on, easy off.

    The Greek families who settled in Newtown, Connecticut weren’t content with just arriving in a new country. They wanted their own colony. A Blue Colony, to pay homage to their Grecian shores. When they were welcomed to the New World, they didn’t simply accept it. Maybe they got mad. Maybe they didn’t understand the language. Maybe they were just being stubborn. Either way, they said, “No problem. We make our own colony.” And so, the Blue Colony was born.

    Their relatives, settling in neighboring towns, followed suit by creating their own color-based colonies. The Red Colony still stands today, born out of friendly rivalry or maybe not-so-friendly fights between the families.

    They even created a crest for the Blue Colony: two majestic lions flanking a shield, proudly displaying the letters B and C. The message was clear. Don’t mess with our colony, Malaka!

    The diner has served us faithfully through the years. As kids, it was our Sunday morning ritual after church. I remember ordering from the kids’ menu; the Rocky Balboa Roast Beef with mashed potatoes, while my brother went with the Lion, a classic roast turkey dinner.

    In high school, the Blue Colony became our late-night landing zone. A place where inebriated or high teenagers scraped together loose change and dollar bills to split coffees and cheesy gravy fries. We would sit there trying to get our heads right before heading home, watching the cast of local characters filter in. Sometimes there would be a fight. Sometimes someone tried to run out on their bill. I earned my own badge of honor the night I got banned after rolling in with a rowdy crew who got into trouble. I didn’t even do anything, but I wore the ban like a badge.

    Fast forward to today, and this place still stands tall. A Newtown landmark since 1973, it is everything you would expect from a classic East Coast diner, full of charm and character.

    At the entrance, a massive display of oversized cookies, pastries, and desserts greets you. The diner is split into a right and left section. I always seem to end up on the left, the side we knew growing up. The right side is either newer or always felt darker. I can’t help but feel like Larry David, wondering if we are being deliberately pushed left. Is this the “ugly” section for undesirables?

    Our party of five was seated in one of the rounded corner booths on the left. Our server was a tall Greek man named Alex who did a great job. Diner staff can always be hit or miss. I feel most places have seasoned servers who carry a heavy life burden or maybe just the wear of so many years holding large plates. Most people are mirrored reflections of your own mood, so I always try to bring a fun, light energy.

    In diners, there are safe bets and there are total gambles. My friend once ordered spaghetti and meatballs at 1:30 in the morning—a clear gamble. He was ruthlessly mocked for it. I stuck with a classic: the Farmer’s Omelet, home fries, rye toast with butter, and a side of coleslaw. Everyone else had breakfast for dinner, except my sister-in-law and son, who went with the can’t-go-wrong turkey triple-decker with fries.

    I like my omelets slightly runny and my home fries with some char, but I never ask for it that way. I have been on a lucky streak lately and enjoy the surprise of seeing what shows up. The most impressive part? The speed. It felt like the cook in the back was racing a stopwatch to see how fast they could crank out five meals. The food arrived quickly and tasted exactly as it should; hearty, satisfying, and consistent with what has kept this place thriving for over 50 years.

    The coleslaw was reliably good, as it always is at a proper diner, each with its own variation. I had a spoonful of the seafood bisque, which came out like molten lava; flavorful, with mysterious but tasty chunks of seafood. I also appreciate that they serve a BIG cup of coffee, one that lasts the whole meal without needing a refill. And to finish, I snagged a few sips of my son’s black and white milkshake, ordered to calm his nerves after a tough baseball game. Everyone was happy and content with their food.

    Now, in midlife, I am glad they forgot about my ban from all those years ago. I can walk in with my head held high, check out the specials, sit among the early-bird diners, and get excited just like my mother used to about the sheer quantity of food at a great value. She always used to say, “I’m going to wrap this up and eat it for lunch tomorrow.”

    Thank you, Blue Colony, for settling these lands so many years ago and doing it your way.

    Final Verdict: 7.25/10

    W/Nostalgia Kicker 8/10

    Still one of the best around. Still doing it right.

  • Diner Review: Laurel Diner – Southbury, CT

    Diner Review: Laurel Diner – Southbury, CT

    Had breakfast this morning at Laurel Diner, a Southbury staple. It’s a local favorite, particularly with the senior crowd  and as someone who’s now officially past the “middle-age hump,” I’m grateful to be in the mix. I was probably 30 years younger than most of the guests, but not quite young enough to be throwing stones or passing judgments.

    Located just off Exit 14, head up the street a bit and it’s tucked on the left side of South Main Street. You’ll almost miss it if you’re not looking, it’s that kind of classic small-town spot. There’s an overflow lot just past the building on the left; I parked there. The whole place gave me a nostalgic hit: when I lived in Woodbury with my Yia Yia (Grandmother), she’d take me to Southbury Foodmart. I’d watch in a bored glee as the elderly gently collided with one another in the parking lot, politely assessing the bumper damage before offering a shrug and going on with their day. “In my day, the bumpers could actually take a bump!”

    Inside, all the 4-tops were taken, so I grabbed a seat at the coffee-bar stools while waiting for my wife. She had to move the car after parking in front of a neighboring business which I’m sure has to fight for its spots with all the traffic going to Laurel’s. As she came in, a couple near the back got up, and we quickly grabbed the freshly vacated table. It’s tight in there, charmingly cramped and while we fit, we had several knee-collisions. I’m 6’4″, and once I sit, I don’t move. My wife, 5’5″ (give or take an inch), kept knocking into me every time she adjusted.

    We both ordered decaf, which was fresh-brewed and served in Laurel’s own classic, local business advertisements coffee mugs that feel like they came straight from a 1978 truck stop in the best possible way.

    Laurel Diner has apparently won awards, I don’t recall the specifics, but I recently saw it featured in a Connecticut Diner Bracket Challenge, and it was holding its own in the final rounds.

    I’ve learned to ask what a diner is known for before I order, and I’m glad I did.   Our server said the homemade hash and the cinnamon raisin toast were house favorites. I went with “The Kiki” special, which included both. My wife stuck with eggs, bacon, and a pancake to share.

    The food came out quickly, not quite “Greek diner with Mexican cooks” fast, but close. Everything was excellent. The homemade corned beef hash was zesty and flavorful, the home fries were seasoned well and crispy, and the cinnamon raisin toast was a treat.  It reminded me of Cinnabon without the frosting; rich, buttery, and just sweet enough. The bacon was solid, better than average diner bacon, but nothing that will haunt my dreams. The pancake we shared dressed in extra butter and syrup was also amazing; light and fluffy. My wife noted her eggs looked more golden with a deeper yellow hue, which led her to guess they might be pasture-raised. Of course, we’re just speculating and don’t know what we’re talking about, but that didn’t stop us from saying it.

    Price Check

    It’s a bit pricier than your average diner, I estimated about 27% higher but for the quality, it felt justified. The portions were generous, the food was excellent, and the vibe was clean and welcoming.  Big note is that they only take cash, which for some reason I didn’t have that much today and felt like a kid again looking through my wallet and wife’s purse to make sure we had enough to pay for our meal.  Luckily we didn’t have to wash the dishes.

    Staff & Space

    The servers were friendly and competent, without the tired diner attitude I can’t stand. The space is snug, and with the heat from the grill and a packed house, we were starting to sweat a little. It’s not the kind of place you linger for hours in but it delivers what it promises: great food, fast, with a little local soul and a gentle whiff of Bengay.

    Final Verdict: 7.75/10

    A little cramped, a little pricey, but totally worth it for the taste, quality, service, and charm. Would I go back? Absolutely!