What ever happened to the Pewter Pot?

There's one full day left before Rosemarie and I take off for London, and now, as I watch her wondering around the living room looking at her suitcase and the clothes stacked nearby, I'm waiting for her to give up for the night and settle into her chair. There'll be plenty of time tomorrow to put everything in order and, in the meantime, today was a fantastic day with old friends and relatives. 

Before the day began, though, I was on the hunt for a corn muffin. A hunt for a corn muffin, you ask? Well, when I was a kid, my mom would take me to the Pewter Pot in Medford Square and in that kitschy restaurant, with the waitresses dressed as colonial serving wenches, we would have a breakfast that always included a grilled corn muffin slathered with butter. It's one of those memories that is forever burned into my mind, along with the little lace hat that the servers were made to wear. I could never see their shoes because their Old English dresses went right to the floor.

These days,  every time I go for breakfast, I always, although I know that no place in Los Angeles ever has one, ask for a grilled corn muffin. Do I want a banana nut, bran raisin, lemon poppyseed or cinnamon bun? No, I tell them, I just want a simple corn muffin, but that seems to be an impossible ask in the entire city of Angels. But today, in the super Stop 'n Shop, there they were  - a whole case of muffins and on the top rack - the object of my hunger. I scooped them up, looked for little Alfred lost in the aisles of the store, and headed back to grill my childhood memory. My dad wanted to wait in the car, but in the heat of the day, all I could picture was the headline, "Son leaves father in locked car," and I made him come into the store, where he promptly took off for parts unknown. 

When we got home, alas, my mother was not wearing a lace head piece. But we grilled the muffin together just the same.

After brunch and a round of bowling, where she again beat me, but by only two pins, she's now safely settled into her chair. Tomorrow, it's a trip to my all-time favorite mega Chinese restuarant for lunch and  then I'll have to take a look at what she's packing and eliminate a third of it. 

The best part of the day? When my cousin Linda said that at least where we are going this time, the language is English, so if Rosemarie gets lost on the train without me she can find her way back to the hotel. And, if you think, that even for a second, despite the non-language barrier, that my mother would let that happen, I've got an old New England  restaurant chain I want to sell you.