Going out to dinner on a Friday night used to be a celebration. Now it is just giving up. After juggling work, and kid, and home stuff in a largely ineffectual way all week, no adult in the house has the energy to cook, or the time machine to go back in time to last night to actually take something out of the freezer to thaw either. We tried to convince the six year old to cook dinner, but he insists that he is not tall enough to reach all the ingredients and he is not allowed to use the stove by himself. Whatever, you slacker. So we all pile into the car and off we go. In theory, this could be great. Portland is a good foodie town. Top flight chefs, innovative cuisine, a plethora of food carts…yum…yum…yum… Oh yeah, I’m a mom. That means we can go to one Mexican restaurant, where our son likes the rice and they make cheese quesadillas in an acceptable fashion, two places that make cheeseburgers in an acceptable fashion, three acceptable pizza places, or the one the makes the best Mac and cheese, provided Mommy picks out the bacon and onions first. I may long for fusion food, or high end locavore food, or fish, but… I will have Mexican food.
Still, it is not all bad. Our six year old has written out the orders, with laborious and hilarious spelling, to take the onus of saying “cheese enchiladas” off of me. My favorite bookstore is just down the street, and we might squeeze in a quick visit before hitting the “I am up past my bedtime” backlash.
And maybe they will have piña coladas.