17 Goblets
They filled the water goblet. I drank it. They filled it again. And again I drank it. And again. And again. 17 times. Seven.Teen. The year was 1986, and for the first time in my life I was experiencing fine dining. The white linens on the table. The raw shrimp heaped in the crystal bowl in the middle of the fine place settings. The water goblets that they kept filling, much to my chagrin. I had to drink them. I assumed it was rude not too. I wore a path from our table to the bathroom at the Barnaby Inn in Dennis, Massachusetts. Each time I came back, the goblet was full again. That year was the first time we ever came to Cape Cod. It was the first time that my Dad ever took his new family back to where he grew up. The first time we got to meet my Grandma Kay and Grandpa Newt. I remember loading down that old blue station wagon my Mom had with all our gear and making the drive. I remember sitting at Thanksgiving and having knishes. I remember going into my Grandmas basem
