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  • Writer's pictureLeah Jones

Chicken Pot Pie and being reviewed

While I’ve been at my new job for about 5 months, I’ve really ONLY been there 3 months as a real employee. That means TOMORROW is my three month review–check yes, check no, keep her or not. I think they’ll probably keep me around, but I’m looking forward to it. I think.

But the highlight of the day was Chicken Pot Pie at Jack’s. I wrote Ronnie this morning and told him that it might be a bad idea–tonight is game four of the world series and we’re considering going to a sport’s bar. Can’t we just get it to go? He thought we’d be safe, because we try to sit in the back room of the 404 Wine Bar–attached, but TV free and smoke free.

Before dinner, I had to get an emergency accessory for Kylie’s wedding this weekend. It somehow slipped up and me and I don’t have anything to wear. So I bought the world’s most pointless item of clothing–a shrug. It isn’t a usable sweater, it isn’t a full item of clothing. Its the sleeves and the shoulders, but not the front or the bottom. However it will make the black dress a little more acceptable for a wedding.

Ronnie picked me up from the train and the parking goddess was with us. Normally we have to circle the neighborhood, but we found a spot barely a block away from Jack’s. And when we got into our room, not only was a table available, but EVERY table was available and it was still TV free.

But the time we’d finished dinner and were leaving, Jack’s was indeed a packed house, but only three other tables in our room had filled. It was a great dinner–we went back and forth about my hebrew name. “You have a perfectly servicable Hebrew name. Why change it?”

As always we talked and talked and ran the busboy crazy by drinking gallons of water out of tiny glasses with too much ice. And I got home in time to go to the gym, but I didn’t go. I went through my argentina journal to find the address of The Palace of the Fried Potato to make sure Ronnie goes while he’s in Buenos Aires this winter. While I was flipping through my journal, I found a page written in hebrew.


In Argentina I was years away from Judaism. But there it is in my journal from 1998–hebrew handwriting from a guy named Inon. We met at a hostel and one night started walking towards the music. We wound up at a high school pep rally, dancing cumbia or something on the futbol field. He’d just finished his time in the army and was on his post-army world tour.

Wierd. So wierd to be flipping through a journal from 1998 and finding hebrew.

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