High Hopes

Last night I had dinner at The Corner Room, a popular Portland restaurant. Naturally we checked it out first on Yelp; everyone loved it, so off we went. But despite trying really hard, I did not love it. I found the place much too noisy, with a lot of clinking and clattering amplified by hard surfaces and an open-style kitchen, and the food incredibly bland and boring even though it looked glossy and magazine-pretty when it arrived. But maybe that's just me.

I have no idea how or why I got this way, since I grew up in a middle-class family where my mother's cooking ran to opening a can of tuna and chopping up some celery, and her decorating flair included two of those porcelain lamps comprised of figurines, one of a shepherdess with a baby lamb nestled against her billowing skirts, the other a horn-blowing shepherd holding a staff, both topped with fringed silk shades. Still, my taste runs high and I can't help it; the slightest false note sends me plummeting into a funk. (Sadly, my son has inherited this trait and he too has ultra-high standards for every single thing he encounters, including me.)

Rather than finding fault with my fault-finding, I ask for your pity. Trust me, it sucks to find most things in life below par. I'm hoping that wherever I go next, everything will be a lot nicer.