Another weekend that makes me long for Monday morning and a return to my routine.
Meetings, family gatherings, and more meals out than necessary, food tempting and tantalizing me, food I shouldn't be eating.
Saturday lunchtime: Smitty's in Sussex.
Sunday breakfast: Firehouse Lounge with our dear friend Joshie, here overnight for a quick visit and wanting to spend time with us over breakfast at a lounge that posts its limited, yet so very delicious, menu on their front window.
Toast: .50
Eggs: .50
Sausage: .50
Bacon: .50
Hashbrowns: $1.00
Pancake: $1.00
And you can have as many of whatever as you want.
Cheapest breakfast I've ever had!
Sunday lunchtime: Quaker Monthly Meeting potluck, with all the delicious goodies everyone brings: chicken lasagna pie, cinnamon buns, sourdough bread, black forest ham and cheese, and the I'm-so-glad-they're-here-veggie-tray-with-hummus.
Sunday suppertime: The Diplomat. Chinese buffet. And for Father's Day, a Seafood Buffet including lobster, scallops, shrimp and mussels.
And it isn't over yet.
Monday lunchtime: Swiss Chalet with two former students-turned-RCMP officers. One on the east coast, one of the west, and both here for the weekend.
I'll say this, I haven't had to cook much.
I did have to make was a Mediterranean potato salad for Quaker Meeting.
Red potatoes, green olives, red onion, celery, red pepper, shredded carrot, with a Dijon mustard-balsamic vinaigrette dressing.
No mayonnaise.
I hate mayonnaise potato salad.
Greasy.
This is light tasting, fresh, different.
And of course, as everyone knows, the vinaigrette added while the potatoes were still hot to ensure the maximum dressing absorption.
I made it Saturday while I was getting dinner together.
The only meal we had at home this weekend.
I had just finished making it when Stephen, Keith and Em came home, and upon seeing this potato salad, each grabbed a spoon and started eating.
Until I yelled NO! and halted their attempt to devour the entire bowl.
THAT is for tomorrow, I proclaimed.
I'll bring home the leftovers and if, on the off chance that there are no leftovers, I'll make another one.
But you don't need to set a new world record for group consumption of potato salad.
Our Father's Day family dinner didn't fail to, yet again, provide us with piles of entertainment.
Note my new hairstyle: the It-was-humid-yesterday-and-now-I-look-like-an-electrified-poodle-look.
I made the reservations last week, which was a good thing, because the line up for The Dip was nothing short of astronomical.
When I wheeled my mother in, the people-who-didn't-make-reservations-and-were-waiting-for-a-table-to-become-available parted like the Red Sea when my mother, aka Moses, moved among them.
Nothing like 900 lobsters at a $34.99 a head buffet to bring out the masses.
The irony is that when my father was a boy, eating lobster was a sign of poverty.
It was all you could afford to eat, and people would put the lobster shells in a bag and put the bag at the bottom of their garbage cans so not even the garbage men would know that they had to eat lobster.
Not so today.
My dad thoroughly enjoyed himself munching on all the lobster's he could eat.
Which resulted in the following:
By the time he had satiated himself with lobster, he had managed to fill his shell bowl, the shells proudly displayed for all to see:
But not finished by a long shot. He then added a few mussel shells before he sat back and declared himself full.
Mer, Keith and Em also partook of the buffet, but Keith was the only one who took on the lobster.
With Dad directing him through the processes of actually eating the lobster.
One in and Pookie was done.
That is too much work for food, he declared.
Mer and Em had the Chinese buffet.
All the egg rolls and chicken balls they could eat!
Stephen had a chicken ceasar salad.
And me, I had a plain old garden salad.
As did my Mum.
But I had enjoyed myself more than enough for one day thank you very much and salad was the only choice I could live with.
Especially since tomorrow morning is my confession.
Weigh in time.
And then the truth shall be revealed.
Whether I like it or not.
Right now, I'm leaning towards to "or not."
In an effort to counter the cheesecake I had the kids sneak me from the buffet, Stephen and I took the dogs for a run after we arrived home.
We took them to one of their favourite haunts: the potato research center, or as we like to refer to it, "the farm."
Or, in front of the dogs, "T-H-E F-A-R-M"
Even that doesn't always work.
They can spell.
I'm convinced.
Stephen loves the farm for the wide open spaces.
The dogs love it because they can run free, and as Stephen says, "pee and poop to their heart's content."
And they do.
Stephen and I needed the walk to deal with the contraband food, and the trials and tribulations of family dinners.
Afterwards, we got the dogs back in the car.
Never an easy feat by the time the walks are finished.
Frankie inevitably encounters other dogs which results in cavorting, running, leaping, chasing until he is too tired to chase any longer.
Even Tikka joined in, for as long as she could given her age and the arthritis in her hips.
So at the end of the walk, they were more than happy to get back into car.
Which allowed me to get some pictures of them up close and standing still.
Can you tell I am having more fun with Stephen's camera than he is?
Was the camera purchased for Stephen? Really?
Time will tell.
I won't bore you with the garden pictures.
Not until later anyway.
Title Lyric: Smile for the Camera by Armor for Sleep
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