We visit the beach. Look, I have a mother who visited from California. Look, we have sand here (“here” being Park Point, the longest freshwater sandbar in the world) and not just pebbles. Look, we pose carefully for the nice lady from Minneapolis who asked, “Do I push this button?’
We shriek at the 45 degree water. We think back to the lovely lunch we just had at the New Scenic Cafe–remembering fondly walleye encrusted with pistachios, Belgian waffle sticks, upscale BLT’s with avacado and jalapeno bacon, fried egg sandwiches with gruyere and asparagus. We shriek some more as the waves lap around us. I urge my mom out further and further, as icing her torn meniscus is recommended. We save on the cost of ice cubes.
Then we chat.
Like shields and red envelopes for Chinese New Year gifts and lanterns and quivers and moonscapes.
His legs, called his “pudgers,” are the softest, creamiest things I know outside of a Dairy Queen ice cream cone.
You can try to engage her attention, but she will cast you off with a look that says, “Do not even try, white lady.”