You can call me baby

Every day, Andy and I go to California Grill, an awesome little lunch spot across the street that makes fantastic turkey club sandwiches. A little latina lady makes the sandwiches, and it's great because even though we've only been going there for about a week, she already knows us and our order.

And she calls us "baby." As in, "Baby, you want banana peppers on that?" or "Toasted whole wheat, right baby?" Now here's the thing, I l-o-v-e being called baby. Preferably by a boy, but it's still great coming from the sandwich lady.

Anyway, today, for no particular reason at all, I skipped lunch. I wasn't that hungry and was working on a project that I couldn't really leave, and next thing I knew it was just too late. Baby had closed. So I sat for about an hour or so feeling a little dizzy and wondering what to do about food. I finally decided to just check out the little market in our lobby. They sell wine and cigarettes and about a thousand other things (remarkable, given how tiny it is). So I walked around it a couple times and grabbed an apple and some pomegranate juice and a mini box of Wheat Thins, but I needed something else... And then I found it. Chef Boyardee - Beef Ravioli, in a convenient microwavable bowl. I haven't had Chef Boyardee ravioli since I was about 9, but once I saw it I had to have it.

It's mushy and sweet and tastes like the fourth grade. Like the days my mom was too tired from work to make us a real dinner. Like rubber kickballs, scooter races, and the Euclid school gym/cafeteria. Like art projects. Like slap bracelets. Like Mrs. Valenzola. Like reading books during recess while the other girls practiced their cheers. Like DARE to keep kids off drugs. Like Grandma, my favorite lunch lady who (well, look at this, we've come full circle) used to call me baby.

It's nostalgia, in a new microwavable package. And yes, it's gross, and I probably won't be tasting it again until I have kids of my own and come home one day too tired to make them a real meal, but it was nice to be able to taste the past again--even for a few minutes.