Today I found a new place to eat, a small eatery hidden in a residential area, The Cottage Cafe. It's quaint, packed, and delightful.
The waitress set us at a two-person table with our own water decanter with small-sized canning jars for water glasses. Hewn logs covered the walls, resembling the interior of a log cabin, and old wooden doors, shabby chic style, peppered the ceiling for decoration, along with bird houses and various ornaments of old-farmhouse history.
I figured I was about to get a home cooked meal, something unique and tasty. That's exactly what I got.
I ordered a herb-incrusted salmon salad with a cilantro vinaigrette with a cup of the tomato chive soup, both accompanied with sliced applies and cottage cream and warm honey, whole wheat bread. I ooed and awed, very pleased with the satisfying sensation I experienced while I ate.
By the time my plate was empty, I cradled a sense of comfort and ease, enough, so tears wetted my eyes. Strange to say I almost cried after eating but true nonetheless, and primarily because I felt contentment and goodness.
Even before eating, I told my husband I had found a special place to put in my back pocket, a place worth going to any day, whether in need of a respite from everyday life or of no need at all.