We were at our local brew pub, grabbing a quick dinner because four of us were sick with colds and one of us couldn’t face the idea of the kitchen, and even though I’d just looked over our budget and we’d just had a we-really-need-to-stop-eating-out-so-often talk, there we were, around the corner from our house, smiling at the server who knows us all too well. 

Quinlan was drawing what looked like a dance party out of a fairy tale (she doesn’t like fairy tales, so I’ve no idea where she got that idea)–couples dancing below a disco ball, ladies in ball gowns, smiling faces. She looked up at us. She wanted an idea of what to draw in the room below the one where the partygoers were having such a good time.

“Where do people like to go if they need a break from dancing?” she asked.

We all made a collective “Um…” sound. A bathroom? An outdoor garden? “Food,” Saoirse suggested. Quinlan looked at us a moment longer. 

“I know! A bar!” she said. “How do you spell bar?”We really need to start eating at home more often.