Scene of the Crime

Most disasters start out as good ideas.

“Let’s kick Saddam’s ass!”
“Brownie would do a hell of a job.”
“Since our anniversary falls on a Friday, let’s celebrate with the kids!”

Ten years ago, our wedding and reception took place at Rusty Pelican. We thought it might be fun to go back for dinner with our children. Show them where Mommy and Daddy got married, where most of Mommy’s bridesmaids stopped talking to her, and where Uncle Morris threw up in the punch bowl. Ahh, memories.

More than a few people thought we were nuts, yet the night was magnificent.

Rusty Pelican is still top notch, Chef even whipped up original, not-on-the-menu dishes for our vegetarian palates. Yummy all the way around. We were even serenaded by a neighboring table that couldn’t hide their shock and admiration over two well-behaved and adorable children.

Kids did us proud. The only rough moment was when our server did the whole “bananas foster tableside on the house in honor of our anniversary” gig. My kindergartners are in the midst of fire safety exercises at school. When flames shot to the ceiling, my youngest hit the deck while my oldest yelled, “Stop! Drop! And Roll!”

I almost dropped my wine. Other than that, damn near perfect.