I miss eating dinner at eight. Actually, now that the daylight savings is in effect and the days are getting longer, I miss eating dinner at nine. We tend to eat at seven at the latest because otherwise Ernie’s bedtime just gets too late. It’s a temporary bane of parenthood I endure because it’s better than dealing with a sleep-deprived kid (it’s also better than having to crash immediately after putting him to bed–Mama needs a little time to herself in the evenings). And yet yesterday we sat down to eat at five with no complaints from me.
Two factors were at play: we were famished and we were in position to beat the crowds. Hours were passed at sunny, hot, and crowded Crissy Fields (did I mention summer arrived in San Francisco on Thursday?), which is across town from our abode. Ernie rode his new birthday bike and then played in the cesspool–oh, I mean estuary–at the beach. We hadn’t planned on the swimming part of the afternoon and were ill-prepared. No bathing suit. No towel. No dry clothes. Nothing. So our little trooper walked barefoot over the crushed granite path to the restrooms and sat, naked, on a poured concrete bench in the women’s bathroom while I rinsed out his underwear and shorts and attempted to dry them under the hand-dryer. It was slow going and no fun for anyone. We got everything to the damp stage and called it a success.
Instead of heading home to aspargus soup (sense any foreshadowing here?), my dashing husband suggested we stay on that side of town and hightail it to Pizzetta 211. We love this place. Love it. Thin but chewy crust, simple toppings, tables outside on a residential street. We are not alone in our love. Past about six people start standing around on the sidewalk stalking tables until the kitchen runs out of dough. Hence the five o’clock dinner. On a sunny day after playing at the beach, a bottle of rosé, a limonada for Ernie, a few olives to nibble before diving into the pizzas…
… five o’clock felt perfect.
Post a Comment