The gentle breeze brushed against us as my granddaughter and I strolled down the street toward our favorite restaurant. She had invited me to an early supper—just the two of us—and I was savoring every moment of it.
We arrived a little before opening and leaned against the restaurant wall, catching up on the week’s happenings. At five o’clock sharp, the doors opened, and soon we were seated out on the lanai. The plan was to taste two beloved appetizers and one dessert rumored to be leaving the menu. These dishes carried a bit of local lore—they traced back to a legacy restaurant in Kaimuki, Hawaii, from 25 years ago, long before Mud Hen opened. When locals order “the Town appetizer,” everyone knows what that means—quality.
We decided to share one of each, knowing from experience that good, clean food fills you quickly. Halfway through our chatter, we felt the empty chair beside us. Missing our other dining companion, we called my daughter on a whim. Before long, she joined us, and the three of us found ourselves in food nirvana.
The gnocchi was the best any of us had ever eaten—and we’ve eaten in Italy. Solid yet pillowy, perfectly seasoned, too divine to drown in sauce. The Ahi Tartare on a potato risotto crust was rich and deeply satisfying. And then came the pièce de résistance: the buttermilk panna cotta with grapefruit—light, luscious, and unforgettable.
We were so delighted that before dessert plates were cleared, we’d made reservations for the very next evening—the last night these dishes would be offered. We saved a few bites for my son-in-law, except for the panna cotta (we weren’t sure it would survive the trip!). We justified our indulgence with the promise that he could come back Sunday.
As night settled over the street, we walked back to the car my daughter had driven down, peaceful and content—three generations of women, our hearts full and our bellies satisfied.
Later, reflecting on the evening, I couldn’t help but smile. Life keeps shifting, moving us from one kind of normal to another. Never did I imagine I could experience such a magical evening without Fred.
Our connections, I’m reminded, aren’t just bound to the one person we vow to love “’til death do us part.” They’re also rooted in the ones still beside us—in laughter, conversation, and shared meals. In those early days of feeling alone, it can seem impossible to imagine joy returning. But if we stay open, we find jewels hidden in the ordinary—a reminder that living in the here and now truly is a gift.
Let’s not miss those moments by only looking back for too long.
— Gritty Granny
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