My parents smoke like chimneys.
When I was in my first year of college, I would come home from class in the early evening. Opening the front door, a shaft of light would break through the darkness of the living room (my dad would keep the place dark as a movie theater so he could enjoy the first generation large screen TV), and I could see the cloud bank that encompassed the whole place, from ceiling down to the level of your knees.
Then California rolled out the "no smoking in public buildings" laws. We usually ate out at least once per week, if not two or three times. In the early days, we could still sit on the patio and my dad could smoke. Later, even that disappeared from his option list, and they stopped going out.
So the other day my dad came to me and asked if I could get him a box of nicotine patches.
"Oh, are you guys finally going to quit smoking?" I asked, trying to hide my pride.
"No," he replied. "I'm taking your mother out to a fancy-schmancy restaurant for our 45th anniversary, and I think I'll need a few to get through the dinner."
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Jane's Adventures in Eating will be out at the end of the week! Tell a friend!