The Cioppino

I had an unexpected night to myself for dinner the other night, so I hit Legal’s.

I haven’t been there much in the past year; for one, the average age at the location in Framingham is about 65, and that’s including the young families who somehow think that it’s a good idea to bring their squirmy 2 year-olds to an upscale casual seafood restaurant (pro tip: it’s not).  My 5 Guys business partner loves to go to Ken’s, which is a steakhouse not far from Legal’s that I think he used to frequent because they would serve him and his underage friends.  That was 40 years ago now and I don’t think they have gained any new customers in 40 years.  The place is terrible.  But I digress.

Legal’s was my father’s favorite restaurant when he lived here.  We went there for his birthdays, for my kids’ birthdays, for my birthday, for Washington’s birthday.  You name it.  I used it as a motivator when he was doing physical therapy in New Jersey after his near-death experience with C-Diff and he wanted to quit.  So many times my brother and I convinced him not to quit.  We sat and ate chowder when he finally made it up here, weakened and still sick, but alive.  It was our place and for many months, it hurt too much to consider eating there again.

Recently, I have been thinking of him a lot.  It’s been about a year since he passed away, which I’m told is a milestone.  I have an unusually good memory for dates, and this summer I relived the sequence last summer where things really fell apart.  This was the Tuesday that I took him to the doctor who hospitalized.  This was the triathlon I did last year while he was in the assisted living apartment for the first time begging me to let him go back to his old place.  This is where I was standing when I got the call from the hospital that he was back, and barely responsive.  This was the time of day when I said the last thing to him I ever would, which is asking him if he was thirsty.  He was.  He didn’t suffer much until the end and it was hard to watch.  This is the time last year that I was in Rome and my brother had called to tell me he was gone.

Now though, I can feel that the memories are there, but the debilitating impact doesn’t accompany them.  It’s like they exist on their own, and I can choose how I want to pay attention to them.  I am starting to come to terms with what all the years as a caregiver meant.  Sophie, who suffered a bad concussion about a week before he died, is finally healing.  She is a brave and amazing kid, and her positive attitude has been inspirational, but all the same, it hurts to watch your child suffer.  We didn’t know then how hard her year would be, and ours with it.  It was a hard year.  It is finally passing.

A few times in the past few weeks, I have caught myself recently feeling strangely at peace.  I like it.  It says something that this sensation unfamiliar enough that I noticed it.

So although I drive past Legal’s regularly on Route 9 (just before passing Ken’s on my right), it felt different recently.  To celebrate that, I decided to treat myself to dinner there next time I had the chance.

In case you’re wondering, I had a Jack’s Abby Hoponius Union with my cioppino; this is one of the beers with which I would stock my father’s fridge in the days that he insisted that I keep beer there.  As for the cioppino, I can report this: it tastes good again.

 

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