The other night we went to our favorite Arabic restaurant. They have an open brick oven where they bake the addictive warm Arabic pouches that they endlessly deliver to your table. I love to watch the baker, with his long paddle, work. In this restaurant, he is visible through a coved brick opening. Off in the corner of that same area is an open laptop. Not sure why, but it is there nonetheless.
Near the end of our meal, Julia turns to me and says, "Mom, I just saw the DJ booth. Can we go request a song?" "Huh," I reply, but what in the world are you talking about is what I am thinking. She points to the bread oven. "Right over there," she says in that exasperated voice that is only missing a duh or stupid as her end punctuation. I don't know if it's the light from the fire, the small opening, the open glow of the laptop, or the man expertly working his craft, but I am instantly aware that Jamaica (or Jamaics, as the kids call it) has left an indelible mark on my girl.
