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Many years ago, my mom took a pilgrimage to Europe with two of her college friends. In Ireland, they walked half the day, searching for the house where my great-great-grandmother grew up. They found it, as well as its very skeptical current owners. They let my mom look through the house and offered her a shot glass of whiskey. All my mom and her friends really wanted was a glass of water, but apparently Irish hospitality calls for whiskey shots.
It's not easy dishing fine cuisine to a discriminating clientele
By Julianne Glatz
It was 4:30 a.m. and pitch-black, and a nasty, chilly drizzle was falling as I pointed my car toward the CIA. I peered through the windshield, the monotonous rhythm of the wipers luring me back to the sleep from which I had been so rudely and recently dragged. But the litany of self-doubt that had nagged me for weeks was enough to keep me awake. Could I measure up? At least not totally embarrass myself? What could I have been thinking—and at my age?