After I got the news about my adrenal mass, time seemed to both slow down and speed up.
Cedric had paged Surgery for a consult, he told me before leaving the hospital at 8pm, the end of his shift. I had arrived at the ER around 4:30pm and up until this point, I had been given a steady amount of attention and was rarely left alone for long.
But then I was left waiting, and waiting, and waiting. Drunk Bill Cosby alternately bellowed and snored. Nurses and doctors would move my gurney out of the way so they could access one of the computer terminals. A nurse noticed me quietly crying and gave me tissues. Tiny, thin, papery, terrible hospital tissues.
I got working papers the summer when I was fourteen. My childhood friend Earl’s family owned a local restaurant and they were kind enough to hire me even though I had never worked. The restaurant didn’t serve alcohol which is part of why I could work there. In my home state of PA, you had to be at least eighteen to wait tables in a place with a liquor license (at least then; not sure about now).
I wasn’t the most attractive hire. My parents wanted me to learn about responsibility and “the value of a dollar.” But Mom also didn’t want me working more than ten or twelve hours per week. Additionally I had an active schedule between summer dance workshops and performances and cheerleading practices, not to mention chasing boys.
It has been a while since I posted about food. Two recent meals reminded me that I was overdue.
One restaurant, Market Table, was so good that I had to go back for seconds.
First, I dined there with Adrienne. Situated in the charming West Village, Market Table is a cozy nine-year old restaurant that I had somehow overlooked all this time. And it was simply through the luck of OpenTable that I picked it at all.
My friend and I had some serious catching up to do so I didn’t take any of my own pics. Fortunately Instagram came to the rescue.