After Hazel’s Power Tools Class (I love saying that!), we went to our fave Italian joint in El Cerrito, run by an Indian couple.
It’s become sort of a tradition.
There are only 4 tables in the restaurant, but there are always at least a few people sitting up at the bar with nearly empty wine glasses, talking to the owners, one of whom is 8 months pregnant. She’s got a terrific smile and asks Hazel lots of questions.
It’s her restaurant. That is, the restaurant is named after her: Dolly. She’s the one who told us that the afredo sauce is made from Parmigiano Reggiano out of the milk of one specific breed of cow in Northern Italy.
“Only 300 farmers are allowed to make this cheese. It is a very special cheese.”
Her husband does all the serving; he’s a massive giant of a man, almost of cartoon proportions, with hands as big as plates. Sweet like a teddy bear.
“More of anything?” he says, putting down our second serving of toasted Ciabatta bread.
Hazel always forces me to play Eye-Spy for as long as I can take it. Sometimes she does homework, sometimes she asks me questions. And in those rare moments when she just sits there and chases her noodles around the plate, I can’t help but stare at her, really seeing her, studying her, like she may disappear at any moment.
My mom used to look at me that way. I’d catch her leaning back on the vinyl booth, staring at me.
“What?”
“I’m just looking at my beautiful boy.”
“Ma.”
For us, the tradition was Oakcrest Pizza, a portmanteau of the (surprisingly A-list) amphitheater up the street and… well, I’m not sure what else, maybe one of the neighborhoods.
Oakcrest wasn’t so much a tradition as a default. If mom didn’t feel like cooking (surprise), we’d hop in the car and drive down the hill to Oakcrest. (It was a very steep hill or we might have walked).
They had long cherry red (before they redid them black) booths; I’d sit on one end with my back to the wall and my legs splayed across the booth, sneakers hanging over the edge.
We didn’t go to Oakcrest for the pizza. There was an appetizer I couldn’t get enough of, a dish my mom tried to make once, but thought better of it.
“Fried Mozzerella?” the server asked, peeling off several sheets from her pad for me to draw on.
I’d nod, as my mom pulled out a ballpoint pen.
And as I’d draw or doodle or write my name in puffy letters, she’d stare; it was one of the only times she was quiet. I certainly didn’t appreciate it enough.
Now, I know what she was thinking of. She was thinking about me and the person I was growing into.
I wonder if she saw a counselor (probably). A husband? (yup). A dad? (definitely). A soccer coach? (sure). A resume writer? (was that even a thing back then?). The world’s best resume writer? (she believed I could be the world’s best anything). A writer in general? (absolutely; she called me her little observer). And what else? And what else, Mom?
I wouldn’t be surprised if she saw all of it. Even the things I still can’t see.
Funny how one person can be fortelling the future while the other is focused on keeping enough marinara sauce for their last crust of bread.
That’s the wisdom of being older: you’ve seen enough to be able to connect the dots across time. You can see the future. That’s what makes life wonderful and hard at the same time.
We can see things so clearly, but we just have to sit there and wait for it to unfold. And then, the hardest part: letting go when we’re wrong.
“Whatttt?”
It’s Hazel; she caught me staring. And time-traveling. I could tell the look on my face by the look on hers.
“I’m just staring at my beautiful girl.”
“Daaad.“
I probably would have kept going with the cheesy, embarrassing comments, but I had to move my foot out of the aisle to let our giant waiter pass by so he could bring a glass of water to his wife, who was smiling and rubbing her belly like a crystal ball.