Random food memory:

We were in Budapest and all getting different variations of sick. I had made a reservation at an NYT-recommend. We arrived to a very bright restaurant with an intimidating menu and an accordion player. For maybe ten minutes we all tried to be brave, but I may or may not have let a couple small tears pop out. Just, you know. “No Dad, No I’m fine.” We all shared awkward glances. Then we ditched. Which is so oddly empowering. Then we wandered into another restaurant. And ditched again. Then we milled around on the sidewalk, no one wanting to admit defeat. “The perfect restaurant could be right around the corner.” Then we surrendered, went to the bodega, stood in line behind everyone getting liquor to go drink on the sidewalk, bought some pasta and butter, and went back to the apartment. I took a nap. Mom made pasta. We all huddled around the TV and watched Hungarian talent shows and knock-off MTV while finishing bowls of buttery, peppery, salty, perfect shell pasta. It was really nice. Pasta is just nice sometimes. Little shapes that wiggle away from your fork. Warm and plain and simple. That is all.

A Dad picture of the weird/cool junk neighborhood.

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