Why We Order Takeout From the Same Restaurant Every Saturday Night
Because they make their BLTs with thick slices of sunny, heirloom tomatoes and now grocery store tomatoes are ruined forever. Because they greet us by name at the pickup window and, tell me, who even does that anymore? Because it’s called “Heather’s”, and it is actually owned by Heather. Because Heather can be seen working her butt off in the kitchen many a busy weekend night. Because a woman-owned restaurant where the owner is not above getting her hands dirty is doing something right.
Because when we had our youngest daughter and I cried in the shower every night for two weeks and when we celebrated our seventh anniversary but I felt more like grieving than celebrating, they sent us home with free dessert. Because chocolate chip cookies can’t heal everything but they sure don’t hurt. Because my girls lick their drippy, twist ice cream cones on humid July evenings. Because I sit at their tables with people I love, and we sip wine and let dark things out into the light until the kitchen closes.
Because they opened right before the pandemic swallowed up most of the humble small businesses. Because they were dogged and refused to die. Because they turned their meager parking lot into outdoor seating with rock gardens and large white tents and twinkle lights and heat lamps to keep out the Minnesota winter chill. Because when everything was uncertain, the haven of this persistent local restaurant was a welcome certainty. Because when we could not even look each other in the eyes, this is how we could bear to begin clawing back the layers: the children sleeping soundly, a meal I did not have to make, dishes you did not have to wash, both of us sitting in the dim light of the dining room—exhausted, persistent.
Because every Saturday at 7:30 PM, we sit down with sighs and tired smiles and we open the bag and we turn towards each other, sometimes for the first time all week. Because two sandwiches in brown paper boxes are not fancy—but, then again, ordinary miracles usually aren’t.
