During these somewhat chaotic times, abstaining from the usual April Fools Day pranks is probably a good idea.
If I’m honest, I can’t even conjure up a credible prank, so I will relate one prank from April Fools Day Past.
This particular April Fools Day morning, I was getting ready to leave our home in East Quogue and head out to Speonk for the 6:21 train to New York. I had started taking a vitamin tablet in the morning, and as I ran the cold water to wash my vitamin down, I was soaked by the kitchen sink hose.
Someone, you see, had taken a rubber band to ensure that the hose would be on when someone ran the water.
The first someone was Eileen, and the second was, of course, me.
I was going to fix her goose, though, and I left the hose as it was so that it would get her when she did as I did and ran the water.
Sadly I had forgotten what I had done or, in this case, not undone.
I came home at the usual time, about 8:15, and for some reason, ran the water in the kitchen sink.
I soaked myself again for the second time in a little more than twelve hours!
My disdain for April Fool’s pranks has not waned since that moment.
However, I am guessing the title of this blog has served as a mild acquiescence to the tradition of April Fool’s pranks, as I am sure you were expecting an entirely different post.
I was thirteen years old when I heard I Want To Hold Your Hand by the Beatles.
It was only a few weeks after President Kennedy was assassinated.
I didn’t realize it right away, but it was the perfect song by a perfect group to hit the airwaves in the waning days of 1963.
Holding another person’s hand, while viewed as a romantic gesture in the song, can also be seen as a demonstration of comfort for a suffering nation.
Back in 1963, it seemed that America’s grief united the nation rather than causing a political rift. America is not so lucky today in how we react to tragedy.
In a little less than an hour, Opening Day for Major League Baseball will take place. Sadly, there are three little children in Nashville that will never experience the joy of this day. There are no songs that will comfort us, and certainly, there seemingly is absolutely nothing that will bring our nation together in its grief.
We have lost our way, and instead of coming together to address the epidemic of mass shootings, America reacts much as it did to the Covid pandemic, with an illogical interpretation of our fundamental rights as a people.
President Roosevelt spoke of the Four Freedoms in 1941. the fourth, perhaps the most important, was the Freedom From Fear.
Fear has taken hold of our political system.
I am not going to list all the fears that Americans have, just read a Florida newspaper sometime.
The one fear I cannot understand or even tolerate was uttered by an older woman the day after the Parkland mass shooting. When I said (what I thought was a rather obvious observance). “That was a terrible thing that happened yesterday.” She replied, “I just worry about the Second Amendment.”
A short collection of ironic observations for my Saturday coffee.
I live in a state where I won’t need a permit to carry an assault rifle, but I’ll need a license to write a blog about the governor.
E Pluribus Unum…those were the days.
Remember when Democrats were called out for being soft on defending the country against the Russians?
Where’s Seinfeld when you need him? And, for that matter, George Carlin? A little laughter is what we need.
For those who think crime is getting out of hand in America, watch some BBC mysteries on PBS, Prime, Brit Box, and Acorn. Every small village in England has a murder rate that would set your hair on fire.
Still, watching these channels sure beats watching American TV.
We need a revival of 60s and 70s music. I mean, Where HAVE all the flowers gone?
It’s interesting that when we go to our Club restaurant, they pipe in 60s and 70s music which I always presumed was because most of us are in our 60s and 70s. Lately, they have added a few songs from the 80s.
Those days are coming all too fast.
Well, the noon hour is fast approaching, and so Saturday Morning Musings has reached the end.
I am baking my St. Patrick’s Day soda bread as I type. Getting used to baking with gas after thirty-three years using electric ovens posed a challenge that I think I have overcome. So, my advice is to make sure your bread is done by inserting a toothpick in the center of the bread just to ensure that it is done. The next issue is how to serve the finished product.
I always loved the first piece that my mother would give me nearly right out of the oven. It was hot and melted the butter to a glorious topping for any fine bread. Jam and marmalade of course make a delicious alternative, but always on top of the butter and always after the first piece.
That’s my habit but you are welcome to enjoy your technique for eating your own slice of Heaven..
Enjoy and eat well.
Every culture that has sent its representatives to our grateful shores has, along with hard-working people who had dreams of a new life and guts of cast iron, given America its language, folklore but, most of all, food. This morning our subject is Irish Soda Bread.
I have always viewed Irish Soda Bread the way my Italian friends thought of gravy, what we call sauce. Just as any self-respecting Italian would rather go hungry than be forced to eat pasta covered in Ragu, so, too, do I have my standards when it comes to Irish Soda Bread for no two soda breads are ever alike.
No matter how nice they look in their bakery wrapper, and regardless of the wonderful aroma that permeates the bakery, when you get the bakery-bought Irish Soda Bread home and attempt to slather it with butter, well, let’s just say it sucks. Supermarket Irish Soda Bread may suck even more. The only recourse true Irish Soda Bread Aficionados have is to only eat homemade Irish Soda Bread. But even here one must tread carefully. There are a lot of wannabes out there, but Jimmy is here to help you. Take this down:
Lizzie McHugh’s Irish Soda Bread Recipe
First. My Mother never had a recipe. She winged it. One day when Eileen and I were still living in New Rochelle, I called her for her recipe. She obliged, and I baked. I love having the first piece when the bread is still piping hot and the butter melts right into it. I didn’t love it this time. It didn’t even taste as good as a supermarket bread. I called her back and told her. She was confused and had me repeat what I had done. “I never said a tablespoon of sugar, you need at least a third of a cup.” Ok, I wrote the corrected recipe down and made a terrific Irish Soda Bread, just like Momma’s. Here it is for your baking and eating pleasure:
Ingredients
Combine
3 1/2 cups of flour
2/3 cup of sugar
3 tsp baking powder
1/4 tsp baking soda
1-tbsp caraway seeds (I like more I’m just saying)
1/2 half box of raisins
2 eggs
Buttermilk
2tblsps-melted butter
Beat the two eggs and add butter (let melted butter cool down) and enough buttermilk to bring the total mixture to 2 cups.
Add the liquid and dry mixtures and combine and place into a greased baking pan, round or loaf.
Put into a pre-heated 350-degree oven and bake for about an hour. Ovens vary so I would check at the 50-minute mark.
Let cool…but not that long as there is nothing on Earth quite like a warm piece of Irish Soda Bread.
Happy Saint Patrick’s Day everybody.
Jetpack
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I am baking my St. Patrick’s Day soda bread as I type. Getting used to baking with gas after thirty-three years using electric ovens posed a challenge that I think I have overcome. So, my advice is to make sure your bread is done by inserting a toothpick in the center of the bread just to ensure that it is done. The next issue is how to serve the finished product.
I always loved the first piece that my mother would give me nearly right out of the oven. It was hot and melted the butter to a glorious topping for any fine bread. Jam and marmalade of course make a delicious alternative, but always on top of the butter and always after the first piece.
That’s my habit but you are welcome to enjoy your technique for eating your own slice of Heaven..
Enjoy and eat well.
Every culture that has sent its representatives to our grateful shores has, along with hard-working people who had dreams of a new life and guts of cast iron, given America its language, folklore but, most of all, food. This morning our subject is Irish Soda Bread.
I have always viewed Irish Soda Bread the way my Italian friends thought of gravy, what we call sauce. Just as any self-respecting Italian would rather go hungry than be forced to eat pasta covered in Ragu, so, too, do I have my standards when it comes to Irish Soda Bread for no two soda breads are ever alike.
No matter how nice they look in their bakery wrapper, and regardless of the wonderful aroma that permeates the bakery, when you get the bakery-bought Irish Soda Bread home and attempt to slather it with butter, well, let’s just say it sucks. Supermarket Irish Soda Bread may suck even more. The only recourse true Irish Soda Bread Aficionados have is to only eat homemade Irish Soda Bread. But even here one must tread carefully. There are a lot of wannabes out there, but Jimmy is here to help you. Take this down:
Lizzie McHugh’s Irish Soda Bread Recipe
First. My Mother never had a recipe. She winged it. One day when Eileen and I were still living in New Rochelle, I called her for her recipe. She obliged, and I baked. I love having the first piece when the bread is still piping hot and the butter melts right into it. I didn’t love it this time. It didn’t even taste as good as a supermarket bread. I called her back and told her. She was confused and had me repeat what I had done. “I never said a tablespoon of sugar, you need at least a third of a cup.” Ok, I wrote the corrected recipe down and made a terrific Irish Soda Bread, just like Momma’s. Here it is for your baking and eating pleasure:
Ingredients
Combine
3 1/2 cups of flour
2/3 cup of sugar
3 tsp baking powder
1/4 tsp baking soda
1-tbsp caraway seeds (I like more I’m just saying)
1/2 half box of raisins
2 eggs
Buttermilk
2tblsps-melted butter
Beat the two eggs and add butter (let melted butter cool down) and enough buttermilk to bring the total mixture to 2 cups.
Add the liquid and dry mixtures and combine and place into a greased baking pan, round or loaf.
Put into a pre-heated 350-degree oven and bake for about an hour. Ovens vary so I would check at the 50-minute mark.
Let cool…but not that long as there is nothing on Earth quite like a warm piece of Irish Soda Bread.
Happy Saint Patrick’s Day everybody.
Jetpack
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Politicians usually sound stupid to me, but never more so when they use “WOKE” in every sentence while attacking liberals as they adroitly avoid actually speaking about a policy that will make America great AGAIN!
God Almighty, must we relive that torture again!!!
Even Tucker passionately hated the PMURT administration.
I hear they are starting an old-time radio show down here in Florida on NPR, of all places. Yes, Lake WOKE-BEGONE will fill the airwaves with pithy stories about life before Brown v The Board of Education and other wokenesses from our ancient past.
The funny thing is I have a sneaky suspicion that I am woke, and I don’t even know what the damn word means.
Every time I hear the word, I drift back to the 60s, and deep within the recesses of my mind Jim Morrison is singing:
“When I WOKE up this morning I got myself a beer.”
Some of you may understand the significance of today’s title. Some might be aware, and that is a very good thing in its own way.
Elvis Costello once asked, “What’s So Funny About Peace Love And Understanding.”
Of course, the short answer, requiring no specialized knowledge. is nothing.
Nothing, indeed, is funny about peace, love, and understanding.
No, they are not funny. However, they may be in short supply.
The shooting of teenagers in Parkland, Florida, was remembered on its fifth anniversary a few weeks back. The following day I started volunteering at the cancer group where I go for treatment for CLL. I was stuffing envelopes with a woman about my age or, perhaps, older. She could have been a grandmother, but we never got that close to speaking about such things. The first thing I said to her was, “What a terrible thing that shooting in Parkland was.”
Her reply:
“I just worry about the Second Amendment.”
I was incredulous.
I was flabbergasted.
I was dumbfounded.
I never said another word to gun totin granny, who cared more about the second amendment than human life.
In all the Constitutional Law classes I had (and I had two), the second amendment never was discussed.
But arguing over this and other hot-button issues has added to the need for my title today.
Love is rarely discussed except maybe in Hallmark movies, and we make fun of those.
What happened to America?
It’s astounding to me that we choose to identify all that is wrong with the other side. We never listen to the other side. We just know they are wrong, and some think they/we are evil.
Today is a case in point.
I could write something like, “When did America change and accept that it’s ok to hate and to say it out loud?
But you know when.
Americans claim to be a religious people. It’s time to read the tenets of our religions and apply them to the modern world. Don’t just cherry-pick your justification for applying two-thousand-year-old norms to the 21st century.
If He really does get us, He will forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.
Some may consider it to be a sorry exercise in nostalgia when looking back on your life. But, recently, I began to wonder if I am the same person that I used to be.
On the cellular level, it has been said our body renews itself every seven years. Some cells are more enduring, but the notion of such a dramatic re-birth of our cells is a fantastic concept to ponder.
I am sure I have changed in many ways from the college student in 1970 who read and wrote from a particular vantage point to the person with a more eclectic taste in music and who gravitates to the murder master genre more than science fiction.
For this reason, as we approach spring and summer, I try to recreate my 1970s playlists and book list just to return home for a few months.
This keeps me grounded by reminding me who I was and, hopefully, still am.
Then, too, I have a touchstone of sorts consisting of six or seven Bronx Boys (and the occasional girl) who have been part of my life, some in excess of sixty years. I must confess that there are times that I am reminded of the person I really didn’t want to be, but that’s all part of your evolution. Isn’t it?
And, while we are not in daily contact with one another, once we renew the conversation, we take off where we left off. It is the purest form of mind-tripping that you can safely endure in your seventies.
Nevertheless, I have struggled to remind myself who I was and, more importantly, who I am.
It has never been more urgent to remain skeptical of what you see on television or what you need on your electronic devices. Especially now when there are so many definitions of “fake.”
It has become all too easy to hop on the wrong train of thought. That is where your touchstones, whatever they may be, are most important. They can reveal the gems from the grit and help you remember who you were. But enough with this.
The Day The Music Died? February 3, 1959 was a day I will forever remember. I can still see my brother Mike and me watching our Mother prepare breakfast. I cannot tell you what the weather was like. If there was snow on the ground, I could not tell you. What I do remember, though, is listening to the green Zenith radio that was up on the shelf over our refrigerator.
In those days my Mother would often have on a rock and roll channel. It would be years later that she would turn to listening to Rambling With Gambling. So, back in 1959 she was probably listening to Herb Oscar Anderson or someone like him. On that particular day it did not matter what channel you had tuned into nor did it matter who the DJ or radio host was. That day it was all the same news and music. Buddy Holly had died and that is all we heard that day. Even as an eight year old I saw the irony in his most recent recording that every station was playing. ‘It Doesn’t Matter Anymore’, written by Paul Anka, just about summed up the feeling of that day.
We also heard that Ritchie Valens and the Big Bopper had died as well, in the same airplane crash as Buddy Holly. Twelve years later Don McLean would refer to this day as The Day The Music Died. While music most certainly did not die that day in February, it was never the same. I am not sure what impact The Big Bopper would continue to have had on the course of music but Buddy Holly and Ritchie Valens would surely have continued to provide terrific music and, no doubt, to inspire new artists and bring new innovations to rock and roll. It is not coincidental that The Beatles recorded ‘Words Of Love’ in deference to Buddy Holly’s contribution to music. Twenty Five Years Later Now it is February 3, 1984. Eileen and I are expecting our second child. The plan was that we would go to the hospital that Monday, February 6th for the birth of our child. That taught me a lesson. There are some things you can plan and some that you cannot.
It was a Friday evening. We had a nice dinner and I was just about to put a fire on and watch the Winter Olympics. No sooner had I had the logs in the hearth than Eileen called out from the bathroom that we would need to be going to the hospital instead. My first reaction was to push my way into the bathroom and to take a shower. To this day I cannot fathom why I thought it necessary for me to be showered and shampooed. I guess I was recalling when Sean was born and that it was going to be a long night/day.
Now we had made plans with friends to take care of Sean on Monday but they were nowhere to be found. So, we called our friend’s mother who promptly drove over and picked up Sean. Eileen and I then made our way to Southampton Hospital. Upon arriving at the Hospital, Eileen’s doctor came in shaking his head saying, “I thought we agreed this was going to happen Monday. I was just about to watch the ice skating competition.” I told him I was too but that at least I did get my shower in.
We then made our way to the OR room and I got the chance, again, to sit next to Eileen as our baby was being born. (Let me tell you, that’s the type of sex education we need in our schools.)
The birth of your child is always amazing. One minute she wasn’t there and the next minute she was. Before that minute had elapsed, however, we named her Jeannine. It was 9:30 PM.
She was a sight to behold. A beautiful round face trimmed with a wisp of reddish hair. We always thought she would be a red head like her mother. The maternity nurse took her and got her ready for her crib and then both of us walked Jeannine up to her room. Eileen was in recovery and would join us later.
When we get to the room the nurse asked me if I wanted to hold her. So, I picked her up out of the little crib and took her in my arms. She turned her head up to me and I swear she looked me right in the eyes and I think she was a little miffed for being disturbed while she was napping. She had a look and I also think she was eying me up wondering what her fate would be with this big doofus that was holding her. Her eyes were wide open and deep blue and the lips were puckered and the nose, that I would spend most of her early years stealing and hiding, was as cute as could be.
It was then that I first sang ‘You’re Sugar….” but it was by far not the last time. Happy Birthday Jeannine. Though the music may have died back in 1959, it was resurrected in 1984.
February 3, 1959, was a day I will forever remember. I can still see my brother Mike and me watching our Mother prepare breakfast. I cannot tell you what the weather was like. If there was snow on the ground, I could not tell you. What I do remember, though, is listening to the green Zenith radio that was up on the shelf over our refrigerator.
In those days, my Mother would often have on a rock and roll channel. It would be years later that she would turn to listen to Rambling With Gambling. So, back in 1959, she was probably listening to Herb Oscar Anderson or someone like him. On that particular day, it did not matter what channel you had tuned into, nor did it matter who the DJ or radio host was. That day it was all the same news and music. Buddy Holly had died, and that is all we heard that day. Even as an eight-year-old, I saw the irony in his most recent recording that every station was playing. ‘It Doesn’t Matter Anymore’, written by Paul Anka, just about summed up the feeling of that day.
We also heard that Ritchie Valens and the Big Bopper had died as well, in the same airplane crash as Buddy Holly. Twelve years later, Don McLean would refer to this day as The Day The Music Died. While music most certainly did not die that day in February, it was never the same. I am not sure what impact The Big Bopper would continue to have had on the course of music, but Buddy Holly and Ritchie Valens would surely have continued to provide terrific music and, no doubt, to inspire new artists and bring new innovations to rock and roll. It is not coincidental that The Beatles recorded ‘Words Of Love’ in deference to Buddy Holly’s contribution to music. Twenty Five Years Later Now it is February 3, 1984. Eileen and I are expecting our second child. The plan was that we would go to the hospital that Monday, February 6th, for the birth of our child. That taught me a lesson. There are some things you can plan and some that you cannot.
It was a Friday evening. We had a nice dinner, and I was just about to put a fire on and watch the Winter Olympics. No sooner had I had the logs in the hearth than Eileen called out from the bathroom that we would need to be going to the hospital instead. My first reaction was to push my way into the bathroom and to take a shower. To this day, I cannot fathom why I thought it necessary for me to be showered and shampooed. I guess I was recalling when Sean was born and that it was going to be a long night/day.
Now we had made plans with friends to take care of Sean on Monday, but they were nowhere to be found. So, we called our friend’s mother, who promptly drove over and picked up Sean. Eileen and I then made our way to Southampton Hospital. Upon arriving at the Hospital, Eileen’s doctor came in, shaking his head, saying, “I thought we agreed this was going to happen Monday. I was just about to watch the ice skating competition.” I told him I was too but that at least I did get my shower in.
We then made our way to the OR room, and I got the chance, again, to sit next to Eileen as our baby was being born. (Let me tell you, that’s the type of sex education we need in our schools.)
The birth of your child is always amazing. One minute she wasn’t there, and the next minute she was. Before that minute had elapsed, however, we named her Jeannine. It was 9:30 PM.
She was a sight to behold. A beautiful round face trimmed with a wisp of reddish hair. We always thought she would be a redhead like her mother. The maternity nurse took her and got her ready for her crib, and then both of us walked Jeannine up to her room. Eileen was in recovery and would join us later.
When we get to the room, the nurse asked me if I wanted to hold her. So, I picked her up out of the little crib and took her in my arms. She turned her head up to me, and I swear she looked me right in the eyes, and I think she was a little miffed for being disturbed while she was napping. She had a look, and I also think she was eying me up wondering what her fate would be with this big doofus that was holding her. Her eyes were wide open and deep blue, and her lips were puckered, and the nose that I would spend most of her early years stealing and hiding, was as cute as could be.
It was then that I first sang ‘You’re Sugar….” but it was by far not the last time.
Happy Birthday, Jeannine.
Though the music may have died back in 1959, it was resurrected in 1984.
The Day The Music Died? February 3, 1959, was a day I will forever remember. I can still see my brother Mike and me watching our Mother prepare breakfast. I cannot tell you what the weather was like. If there was snow on the ground, I could not tell you. What I do remember, though, is listening to the green Zenith radio that was up on the shelf over our refrigerator.
In those days my Mother would often have on a rock and roll channel. It would be years later that she would turn to listen to Rambling With Gambling. So, back in 1959, she was probably listening to Herb Oscar Anderson or someone like him. On that particular day it did not matter what channel you had tuned into nor did it matter who the DJ or radio host was. That day it was all the same news and music. Buddy Holly had died and that is all we heard that day. Even as an eight-year-old I saw the irony in his most recent recording that every station was playing. ‘It Doesn’t Matter Anymore’, written by Paul Anka, just about summed up the feeling of that day.
We also heard that Ritchie Valens and the Big Bopper had died as well, in the same airplane crash as Buddy Holly. Twelve years later Don McLean would refer to this day as The Day The Music Died. While music most certainly did not die that day in February, it was never the same. I am not sure what impact The Big Bopper would continue to have had on the course of music but Buddy Holly and Ritchie Valens would surely have continued to provide terrific music and, no doubt, to inspire new artists and bring new innovations to rock and roll. It is not coincidental that The Beatles recorded ‘Words Of Love’ in deference to Buddy Holly’s contribution to music. Twenty Five Years Later Now it is February 3, 1984. Eileen and I are expecting our second child. The plan was that we would go to the hospital that Monday, February 6th for the birth of our child. That taught me a lesson. There are some things you can plan and some that you cannot.
It was a Friday evening. We had a nice dinner and I was just about to put a fire on and watch the Winter Olympics. No sooner had I had the logs in the hearth than Eileen called out from the bathroom that we would need to be going to the hospital instead. My first reaction was to push my way into the bathroom and to take a shower. To this day I cannot fathom why I thought it necessary for me to be showered and shampooed. I guess I was recalling when Sean was born and that it was going to be a long night/day.
Now we had made plans with friends to take care of Sean on Monday but they were nowhere to be found. So, we called our friend’s mother who promptly drove over and picked up Sean. Eileen and I then made our way to Southampton Hospital. Upon arriving at the Hospital, Eileen’s doctor came in shaking his head saying, “I thought we agreed this was going to happen Monday. I was just about to watch the ice skating competition.” I told him I was too but that at least I did get my shower in.
We then made our way to the OR room and I got the chance, again, to sit next to Eileen as our baby was being born. (Let me tell you, that’s the type of sex education we need in our schools.)
The birth of your child is always amazing. One minute she wasn’t there and the next minute she was. Before that minute had elapsed, however, we named her Jeannine. It was 9:30 PM.
She was a sight to behold. A beautiful round face trimmed with a wisp of reddish hair. We always thought she would be a redhead like her mother. The maternity nurse took her and got her ready for her crib and then both of us walked Jeannine up to her room. Eileen was in recovery and would join us later.
When we get to the room the nurse asked me if I wanted to hold her. So, I picked her up out of the little crib and took her in my arms. She turned her head up to me and I swear she looked me right in the eyes and I think she was a little miffed for being disturbed while she was napping. She had a look and I also think she was eying me up wondering what her fate would be with this big doofus that was holding her. Her eyes were wide open and deep blue and her lips were puckered and the nose, that I would spend most of her early years stealing and hiding, was as cute as could be.
It was then that I first sang ‘You’re Sugar….” but it was by far not the last time.
Happy Birthday, Jeannine.
Though the music may have died back in 1959, it was resurrected in 1984.Leave a Reply
Here we are on January 6th. In the old days, we would have called this The Epiphany, and some would have referred to it as Little Christmas, the day when the Magi appeared with their gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh.
The term First Friday had its own special significance to those of us who attended Catholic elementary school in the 50s and 60s.
First Friday was not quite a feast day, but it was a day we were required to attend mass, after which we could return home for breakfast (one which was always made special by my mother) and then return to school for a delayed opening.
What a way to start the weekend!
We never used the phrase TGIF, but the sentiment originated back then. A shortened school day on the last day of the week?
Oh, how delightful that was.
I know I have, once again, time-traveled to my long-lost past, but I am only trying to stay positive and write about happy times. For more than a year now, I have avoided going political as much as to spare myself the negativity that I might espouse as to spare you. In 2023, I will remain as quiet, politically speaking, as possible.
I might drift into the trials and tribulations of the New York Jets from time to time or argue that the Yankees continue to strike out way too much or that the heat in Florida is stifling, but if you want political crabbing, tune in to Fox or MSNBC.
It’s essential to accentuate the positive as the holiday season comes to a close, and the return to work and the chill of winter winds and driving snow conspire to make the next three months a test of our moral courage.
Well, being retired has its benefits as well as living in Florida.
We have NFL playoffs to get us to the first week of February, soon followed by pitchers and catchers reporting to spring training. Our light at the end of the white tunnel. (No, not that white tunnel, just the snow heading our way)
Six years ago, Eileen and I and our friend Connie celebrated our First Friday in Florida. It has a different meaning here. It’s a big party day. We had reservations at a restaurant located in Lakewood Ranch in a shopping and dining area known as Main Street. Main Street was sponsoring a First Friday street fair celebration.
I dropped the ladies off across from the entrance to Main Street and proceeded to look for parking. It was impossible to find a space, and when I finally did, I would have had to Uber back to the restaurant.
We canceled that reservation and searched for another restaurant, but we were sure the same experience might face us at every restaurant on our list.
We were lucky to find an odd little place that will serve as the topic of another posting some other First Friday.
The Newell Post 