Recently, my husband and I took our 12-year-old daughter out to Macaroni Grill to celebrate her straight-A report card. (Yes, she gets that from me.) When we climbed out of the car an Italian man was belting out lively Italian music from hidden speakers that immediately caused my head to bob back and forth. We skipped in snagging extra crayons so we could all draw on the table. It was not an earth-shattering dinner. My daughter dug the middle out of the rosemary bread, leaving a sad little hollow shell of crust. Our food was good. We even had dessert.
The final “reward” for good grades was a piece of obscene chocolate cake that was as big as a brick.
Yes, the food was good, the cake was rich and sweet, the bread was hot. Because we are extremely disciplined (ahem) we had a doggie bag.
We finally rolled our sleepy selves out and headed home. I pulled into the driveway and we hoisted our full bodies out of the car to which my smarty-pants daughter says, “Don’t forget the cake and the cannelloni!”
As if we could forget that…
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