Before there was IHOP, there was Gwynn’s.
When I was a kid in suburban Teaneck, New Jersey, it was always a treat to go for Sunday brunch with my family at Gwynn’s on Teaneck Road. Gwynn’s seemed swanky and grown-up to me. Outside, it was painted white brick, and inside it was cool and darkish, with comfy booths. My mother would order her coffee, and the cream came in tiny, glass pitchers with little round cardboard pull-tabs on top. She only used a drop and then gave me the supreme pleasure of letting me drink the rest of the cream from its miniature jar. Sometimes, if she had a second cup, I got another taste of the thick, heavenly liquid that would contribute to the need for Lipitor years later. Compared to my very picky little sister, who ate only cream cheese and jelly, I was “a good eater” with a passion for pancakes, waffles and French toast.
A roasted chicken goes a long way in our house. It is one of those easy dishes that requires very little prep. Stuffing the cavity with a whole lemon cut in half, a whole garlic bulb cut in half, some thyme, salt, and pepper creates the simplest of flavors. Smear the body with soft butter, lots of kosher salt and fresh ground pepper, toss in the oven for about an hour and a half. Serve it with some roasted carrots and some sort of green and dinner is on the table for just a few bucks.
Yesterday morning, I stood at the entranceway to our living room and surveyed the damage. There were stacks of books and magazines on the coffee table, tumbles of blankets on the couch, a smattering of empty mugs with used tea bag strings dangling over their rims. My abandoned crutches were leaning on the door, my physical therapy CPM machine on the floor. 
I saw a beautiful fruit tart today, but I didn’t buy it. Though one brief glimpse of its light crust, glistening white cream & assorted seasonal berries and our whole intense love affair came rushing back.