When the Waitress Is the Entertainment

When I asked our Lowe’s Wharf waitress her name she said, “Still Debbie,” and so she remained the rest of the evening. Little did we know she would compete with the sunset for Best Entertainment.

Lowe's Wharf from water

My Newcomers Dining Out Group was seated around the fire pit at Lowe’s Wharf. None of us are newcomers any more, but we still get together once a month for dinner and take turns making the arrangements. Lowe’s Wharf was my pick for September.Lowe's Wharf

This photo was not of our group. I grabbed it off the Lowe’s Wharf FB page. The fire pit is on the left. Bikini weather was past and, for our group, not just because of the weather.

Ten of us were saying good-bye to summer and hoping for a memorable sunset. We opted not to ask for a fire because the breeze would have meant that half of us would be inhaling. Those days are long gone for our group, too, so we visualized a fire.


Most of us were wearing jackets. Alice, who grew up in Hawaii, was bundled up, apparently expecting a nor’easter. Alcohol would have to suffice. Singapore Slings, Margaritas and beers off set the cool breeze.

Still Debbie was the only waitress on duty. Not a teenager, her face has known its share of wind and sun, but her eyes had a mischievous sparkle that should have warned us.

When our group arrived there were only two people at the bar. As the sun went down more people began to arrive, some with dogs on leashes, and Still Debbie was still the only waitress making the rounds of the tables and Adirondack chairs on the sand. She was pleasant and accommodating; she didn’t really want to do five separate checks but took our credit cards as collateral and we were okay with that.

Lowe’s Wharf’s bar food is surprisingly good. Mostly seafood and mostly deep fried, but hey, it’s a beach bar. We had begun with some appetizers and when we got around to ordering dinner Still Debbie pulled out her order pad. Roger K. he said he wanted a steak.

            “Do you want your meat rubbed?” Debbie asked and then just stood there.

            Roger stammered, “Do I want my meat rubbed?”

            “What did he say,” my husband whispered as the comment flew around the circle of chairs and the chortles began. By now several of us were LOLing.

            “We have several different ways of rubbing your meat,” Debbie advised, her delivery deadpan. Now the rest of us were wiping our eyes.

            Roger asked for more explanation and got it. Lowe’s Wharf offers a number of different rubs: Southwestern, Thai, Cajun. I don’t remember what he finally chose or if he even wanted his meat rubbed, but for the rest of us, that was the highlight of the evening. I’ll be surprised if she doesn’t find her way into my fiction. Still Debbie had provided us with great entertainment and her tips reflected that – she’s one smart waitress.

Pickles Are Better Than Zoloft

Last week I was in Montana visiting my son’s family where I helped put food up for the winter. Being out of the loop is better than Zoloft. My psychologist husband says it’s because these activities (like my passion for gardening) are low conflict. Whatever…

During the most stressful days of The Santa Diaries production I resorted to some three year old Zoloft I found in my medicine cabinet. Laura began adopting kittens from the animal shelter. Making pickles is healthier.

My son and his wife have an enormous garden. I canned and blanched and froze for six days: pressure canned beef broth, made quarts and quarts of freezer slaw, dill pickles, peach freezer jam and bowl after bowl of cucumber/onions in vinegar for my son. I only checked email a couple of times, and was generally out of touch. I loved it!

pickles and dill

The size of the bowl in this photo is deceptive. Here’s some context.


One of the highlights of the week was a neighborhood Pie Social. Hot dogs and hamburgers on sale for a dollar or two. The pie, donated by neighborhood ladies, was free with a donation jar resting on the table. At least fifteen different kinds of pies, including two Shoo Fly pies I baked with my granddaughter.

I threw gluten, dairy and carbs to the wind and had a piece of cherry pie before my hotdog and a sliver of ShoeFly after. Laura says her friend, Dot, calls a small piece a slither. Every baker reading this knows you have to make sure your donated pie is worthy to be on the table. Mine was. Post hotdog I had a piece of raspberry chocolate pie. This event alone was worth flying to Montana. Who needs Zoloft!