[by Samara]
For the last several years, Dad and I tried to have dinner out about once a month. For the last year or so, he requested Red Lobster. I would've taken him anywhere, to any of the fancy restaurants he'd taken me to over the years—One 11, Wellington's, Gourmet & Co. But he loved lobster, crab legs, and shrimp. And even though it was mediocre, he could get those things at Red Lobster. Sometimes we split a pound of crab legs. Sometimes two. And somehow, we always seemed to miss the lobster fest. For his sides, he always ordered asparagus extra well done—because it's hard to eat crunchy asparagus without teeth. He tried the coleslaw once. It was so terrible, he spit it back out into the cup. I was visibly annoyed that he did that and he said something like, "I'm sorry, baby. It was terrible. When you're old, you can do what you want." When the server took our drink order, he always said he didn't want anything yet. He'd wait until the food came. But then he'd end up drinking my water and I'd have to order another one. He'd eventually look up at me with devious eyes and tell the server, "It depends on what she'll let me have." He wanted Coca-Cola, no ice. We settled often on half-and-half iced tea. On rare occasions, I could get him to drink water for a whole meal. We often splurged and got dessert, even though he was diabetic. Even though every dessert made him feel worse. I loved spending time with him over dinner—and nothing beat the look on his face when he ate crab legs or chocolate.
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