Mike and the girls “cooked” breakfast for me on Mother’s Day. I use the term loosely – not because of any sort of gross outcome, but because the cooking consisted of gathering the family far earlier than we would have made it out of the house on a normal Sunday and heading down to Voula’s Offshore Cafe.
If I could have three wishes, my first one would be for three more wishes (duh), my second would be for world peace (I’m a giver), and my third would be to be able to have the Voula’s staff in my back pocket, ready to cook me a Greek Hobo, Strawberry Waffles or good old scrambled eggs, hashbrowns and bacon at will. And coffee. Lots of good, drink-from-a-white-ceramic-cup coffee.
I like the place. I like the place a lot. The food is home-cooked diner food, a greasy spoon to beat any other greasy spoon, including my beloved Spar in Tacoma (I love you, Spar! You’re the bomb, Kathy!). The ingredients are fresh and everything is made-to-order.
You have to develop Voula-time when dining on weekend mornings. You get coffee as you wait, you wait for awhile, you order, you have more coffee, you wait some more, you talk a bit and then –oh, heaven– you eat. Not that they’re pushy, but they do put your tab on the table as they deliver the last of your food. There are people waiting to wait and you’d be a cruel, heartless beast if you deprived them of this nectar of the gods, this food of the sainted.
The wait staff know your name and if they don’t, they’ll ask. The staff are call-it-like-they-see-it folks. In a good way, you understand. If they need to seat a few more people at your table, they’re gonna do it and you’re gonna like it. And you will. Because you want The Food. You need The Food. The Food will have you making friends with complete strangers at tables too small for anyone to really be comfortable. And you know what? You don’t even care. You just sip that coffee and wait for what’s to come.
So, on Sunday. We were in prime waiting mode at our table. The kids were coloring pictures for Voula’s wall and Mikey and I were texting each other. Yes, we were sitting across from each other but I had to tell him something one of the girls said (It had to do with puberty. Be afraid. Be very afraid). I looked up and saw a figure slowly walking toward us. She hunched over a walker and made her way across the room to the table next to us. She was wearing a sweatshirt with the hood over her head and a baseball cap on top of that. The cap had a breast cancer pink ribbon embroidered on the front. Her family flanked her, clearing the path as she took each small, purposeful step toward the chair.
Our server prepared her seat at the head of the table. The woman’s adult daughter, a woman in her early twenties, helped her into the chair and gently took off the cap. The mother used her shaky hands to remove the hood from her head, revealing a bald scalp.
My first reaction was so selfish I can hardly write about it: I closed my eyes and begged for that family to go away.
I wanted my Voula-time, I wanted be happy without feeling sad for that woman, obviously recovering from cancer and obviously struggling on what could be her last Mother’s Day. I kicked myself for paying attention, watching the family’s every move. I wanted not to care. I wanted to focus on my sweet, healthy family. I wanted my breakfast. Of course at some point I gave myself a swift kick in my figurative rear (and boy howdy is it figurative). Thank god. I am really questionable sometimes.
I started to appreciate things. Things like the server standing beside the mother and gently putting her hand on the woman’s back, leaning down to hear her order. She looked into the woman’s eyes as she answered her questions. She smiled. The mother smiled. Happiness in that kind of situation? Ok! I’ll take it.
Then I smiled when I looked at the daughter, dressed in a white strapless dress and a formal hairdo. At Voula’s. At nine in the morning. Fancy.
I returned my attention to my family as our food arrived.
Remember those wishes I saved up from earlier? Yeah, well, my next set of three wishes will include one about wanting to be the kind of mother whose kid will take them to Voula’s on Mother’s day dressed in a strapless dress and one about being the kind of person our server was–honoring the most high-needs of guests with dignity. Even when, and perhaps most importantly, talking about scrambled eggs.