It never ceases to amaze me that there are adults who are genuinely afraid of thunderstorms, but one such person is part of our little getaway group. This only became a problem when we started talking about going out and she informed us that she couldn't possibly go anywhere until the thunder and lightening subsided.
No problem, we accommodated, we'll do a happy hour until the storm passes. But not everyone had their beverage of choice in house, so we sent a duo out on a hunting and gathering mission (one needed cigarettes, so that was part of it) with instructions to be quick.
They were not quick. They did not remember to get the vermouth, either. They made a side trip and brought back fudge, saltwater taffy and rock candy. They were still backslapping each other about the Brew-Thru. Fail, but not epic.
On a happier note, during their absence the storm had moved on and we were able to leave for dinner. Our destination had been chosen by a vote (I lost) so we went to the Red Drum, a place that touts its 18 beers on tap. "Nuff said.
I can't complain, though, because my rockfish topped with a saute of applewood-smoked bacon, shrimp and tomato in a roasted garlic basil butter was outstanding. The taste I had of storm girl's flounder with artichokes, crab meat and capers in a lemon butter sauce was almost as good.
But even well-prepared fish can't compensate for large family groups and small children banging cups and hollering. When one little girl sitting on her grandfather's lap began rubbing his chest, her mother demanded,"What are you doing, feeling him up?" in a voice that carried across the room.
There is no hope for future generations.
And on that note, we are headed down to the beach to set off fireworks and contemplate a hopeless future. Glasses will necessarily be raised.
But not until storm girl changes into something with no metal zippers. Give me strength.