A Taste of Home: The Captain's Room in Geneva, NY

Captain Morgan. Captain America. Captain Kirk. This is where they all dine, Sunday through Saturday, from 7 a.m. until 2 p.m., when the fires under the grease-stained grills extinguish, the last drips of coal black coffee evaporate, and the electric blue and red lights of the “Open” sign disappear.

“The Captain’s Room” in Geneva, N.Y. bustles from the creaks of the front door to the subtle buzzing of the heat lamps at its rear at 12:10 p.m. Friday afternoon. Four men, slack in their chairs but lively in their voices, engage in a tongue-rolling conversation over empty and stained glasses at the next table. Their quick conversation would be difficult to understand even if they weren’t huddled together like a football team. Spanish can be tricky.

“Ya ya,” shouts a baby from across the diner, as if she was responding to the waitress’s delicate question—“More coffee?” The waitress laughs in response to the baby’s babbles, causing her caramel-colored curls to spring forward.

With a motherly gaze, she bends down to talk to the baby face-to-face, waitress to customer, woman to woman. The gentle hand of the baby girl graces the server’s cheek, eager to touch a face that isn’t her own.

An abrupt ding of the kitchen bell sounds, and the waitress snaps back into motion, like the gears of a clock that has been switched on for the first time. She swivels around and heads toward the wafts of steam emerging from the freshly plated eggs and toast the cook had just plopped down. Two plates per hand, she charges to the nearest table. And as soon as she sets them down, she hustles over to the register, rapidly pressing its fingerprint-stained buttons.

As customers dwindle away from the warm atmosphere, the waitress remains. She pulls out boxes from below the counter. Like the bottomless bag belonging to a magical wizard, the boxes continue to appear, one after the other. The packages overflow jellies, sugars, and creamers onto the black-speckled counters.

Floating from table to table, she stuffs napkins into rigid metal holders. She pushes the red upholstered chairs back into their respective places. She wipes down the tables in attempts to make them as spotless as they had been at opening.

She looks relieved for the work day to be nearly over at 1:55 p.m., yet saddened that she would no longer be surrounded by others.  The captains would keep her company still—portraits of Skipper from “Gilligan’s Island” and members of “Captain and Tennille” cling to the walls. Melted into the plaster, a mural of Captain Hook, Captain Falcon, and Captain Caveman also keep her from complete solitude.

This café is not only a place where waitresses and captains meet daily, but friends and family, adults and children, strangers and first dates, who engross in the aged tradition of sharing moments and meals.

A Thanks to Thanksgiving

I am dying. Not literally. But it would be nice if this week could just end so I could make my hour-long highway drive home for Thanksgiving break. I love everything about Thanksgiving in my household. 

I love waking up to the waft of onion and garlic that slips through the crevices of my bedroom door. As I float downstairs, I am greeted by my mom and dad in the kitchen, gracefully moving from stovetop to refrigerator to kitchen table. They move like clockwork—my dad is preparing the Turkey and the ingredients for his famous pumpkin soup, and my mom is briskly skinning sweet potatoes, in attempts to perfectly duplicate my grandmother’s mouthwatering candied yams. I drift over to the couch to watch three hours of Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade—I eat up every minute of it, as if it’s as scrumptious as the gigantic meal my parents plan to serve later that evening.

Then the family arrives. On Thanksgiving, my mom gets the pleasure of having all of her kids (and their families) over for dinner—my two oldest half-brothers and their five kids, my closest brother, Adam, his fiancé, and their dog Toby. My sister-in-law’s mom and husband also join us for dinner.  It’s pretty chaotic. And wonderful.

Guaranteed by dessert, my nieces and nephews have made their way down to the basement to scavenge for toys or into our backroom to try to find and torture our cats. Others are spread throughout the house, debating over which team will win the football game on TV, drinking beer and chatting at the kitchen table. By this time, Adam and I have already debated over whether it was mom or dad who salted the potatoes—mom never adds enough. Dad is licking the gravy off the rim of his plate and sucking the turkey bones to the marrow, like any real Italian would (or maybe it’s just him). 

The night isn't full complete, however, until someone has mentioned my swift samurai skills in attacking the dessert table. It is a gift. The night ends when everyone leaves, and I am lulled into a food coma, falling asleep to pre-Christmas TV specials. Ahh, yes. Thank you Thanksgiving, for bringing all the quirks of my family together in the same room for one evening. And hurry up and get here!

From Birth to Betty in 340 Words

My parents were surprised when I came out of the womb with a full head of red hair. They were not only exuberant because of my fiery head, but because I was their first and only girl (I have three older brothers). They were exuberant, that is, until they learned I had an attitude. By two I had conquered the phrase “leave me alone,” except I couldn’t say my l’s so it came out as “yeave me ayone!” But I said it with force and I meant it. Although, that was a long time ago (and I haven’t changed one bit).

I should mention that I’m not technically a kid. I’m 22 years old and in grad school. I’m a journalism major. I know what you’re thinking—why would you go to grad school for that? My response: Because I just get a thrill in adding 50 grand to my debt pile. I like to ride by the seat of my pants. A real thriller. But seriously, I love to write and talk to people and share their stories. And it’s somewhat of a career change from my undergraduate work—English and adolescent education.

When I’m not interviewing people or stressing over 15-page papers or about ready to jump out of the nearest window—we won’t get into the chaos that is my life (at least not right now)—I try to be as least serious as possible. Yes, I sometimes become quite obnoxious, and only my best of friends know this real side of me. I’d like to think it’s endearing.

If I’ve at all somehow managed to hook you into reading this, it’s important to note that I have four current (because sometimes they change) obsessions in life: travel, my Italian heritage, Boston, and Betty White. Yes, Betty White. If you like the sounds of where this blog is going (trust me, it will be a learning experience for all of those involved, myself included) then stay tuned and stay classy San Diego (I also love Ron Burgundy).