The Birthday Dinner

“Calling Mom about her birthday dinner,” I yell from the kitchen to my husband, Luke, who's in his office. Her birthday is December 26th, just after the holiday rush. Despite the exhaustion, we always get together with my family to celebrate, though Luke often wishes for “a day to just relax after the madness.”

“I can’t help when her birthday is, Luke. Are you in or out?”

“In of course.” He retorts, but is less than pleased.

“What’s up, toots?” Mom says in a chipper tone on the other line.

“Hi Mom, Happy Birthday to you, happy birthday to you,” I say in a sing-songy voice

“Thank you, Lulu.”

“How’s your day going, Mom?”

“Just peachy. You?” she responds in her usual sarcastic tone.

“Honky-Dory. Where would you like to go for dinner tonight?” I respond accordingly.

“The usual, I guess?”

“You guess? Is that where you really want to go?”

“Yes, that’s fine.”

“Ok, is everyone in?”

“Yes,” she replies, as I imagine her counting everyone in her head. “Your sister and Peter and the three kids are coming, how about your gang?”

I start doodling spirals on the notepad in front of me on the counter; “Everyone’s coming, Bryce, Rosie, and Marcus, Eddie, and Siobahn are meeting Luke and me there. I’ll call and make a reservation, and we can pick you up on the way.”

“Thanks, see you soon, chickie.”

“Alright, Mom, see you soon.” I end the call and do a search on my phone for Jose’s Cafe. I select the phone number and call to make the reservation for the fourteen of us.

Jose’s is a local Tex-Mex restaurant just off a busy highway with a giant sign out front that reads “EAT.” We have affectionately nicknamed it Eats. We hop into our car to pick Mom up at her place and head out to dinner.

As we roll into the parking lot, we hear the nostalgic ’90s country blasting from inside. It instantly takes me back to when my kids were little. Faith Hill, Tim McGraw, and Shania Twain could be heard belting out of the car radio speakers as the kids and I sang along as we drove down the road, headed out for our daily to-do list.

We greet our kids who’ve arrived separately, my sister and her family, and check in with the hostess at the front desk. “For fourteen people,” the harried hostess posits, “it will be about twenty to thirty minutes. Is everyone in your party here?” She asks as she sighs.

“Yes,” I reply. Shifting back over to our group to wait for our table.

As promised, about 25 minutes later, we’re ushered to our table amongst the bustling, noisy dining room with rustic wooden tables and chairs and neon margarita signs on the walls. To be honest, it can be a little bit of sensory overload.

On our way to our table, my son Bryce, who has had his share of clumsy moments, looks back at me and trips over his own foot, somehow narrowly avoiding a face-plant right there in the dining room.

I take hold of his arm. “Are you ok? That was a close one.”

“Yes, Mom, I’m good.” He responds, a little red-faced.

In classic Mom-Grammy fashion, she sidles right up next to him, throws an arm around his shoulder, and jokingly chimes, “Watch where you’re going, not where you’ve been, Skippy,” (her nickname for him).

“Noted,” says Bryce, with a sheepish smile on his face.

I take a moment to gaze at the hot pepper-shaped string lights that hang from the ceilings, and the overhead beam with “Free Cervesa Mañana,” painted on it, (which always makes me giggle a little, because if you come tomorrow for the free beer, it’s still only free tomorrow!) It’s a fun atmosphere, and the food is delicious.

Our piping-hot tortilla chips, along with the obligatory salsa, are delivered to our table by our waitress, Sabrina, who has started taking our food and drink orders.

“What can I get for you all?” Sabrina asks, looking down her nose through her blue glasses, standing with her notepad in her palm, pen poised over the paper, ready to jot down our requests.

“What are you thinking, Mom?” my sister Lee asks.

“Got me by the sneaks.” Says Mom, grinning. She always likes finding ways to work her quirky phrases into a conversation.

Lee’s husband Peter adds, “You know what you’re getting, you always order the fajitas!”

Smiling slyly and shifting in her seat, she replies, “Oh, blow it out your ear, Peter.”

The table erupts in laughter as we shoot each other that “only Mom” look across the table and shake our heads.

As predicted, Mom orders the chicken fajitas, and we chat and catch up while waiting for our meals to arrive.

The food comes quickly, and while Brooks and Dunn’s “Boot Scoot Boogie” plays in the background, Sabrina skillfully delivers the dishes we ordered.

Mom’s dish of well-seasoned chicken, veggies and tortillas has been placed in front of her. She quietly leans over to me and says, “My food is cold.” I look to my right only to see steam filling the air coming directly from the plate of fajitas! “Mom!” I say, “I can see the steam coming from your plate!” “Me too!” says Lee. Mom’s lips twist into a frown, and I think I even see a bit of an eye roll out of the corner of my eye. She grabs a tortilla to make her first fajita, albeit begrudgingly..

This again incites chuckles from our table and knowing glances, as this is classic Mom behavior.

A story our kids love to tell over and over about Mom involves her in, (insert any fast food drive-through here), complaining that one of her grandkids didn’t get enough nuggets or someone was shorted french fries. The kids would shrink down in the backseat, ready to keel over from embarrassment, but sure enough, she’d get an extra bag of nuggets or fries. We’re not sure where this desire to get extra food came from, but those stories will live in infamy for sure! It’s not her most endearing quality, but it makes us laugh now.

Leaving Eats that cold December evening, with our bellies full and our hearts warmed with love and appreciation of our time together, the memories are even more precious now. Little did we know, it would be Mom’s last birthday. She passed the following October. We continue to honor her memory at Eats every year on her birthday.