People at a coffee shopGennifer takes the plunge.

Like people everywhere, the crowd at our corner coffee shop likes to complain. Why don’t “they” do something about the potholes, economic development, residential density, etc. etc.

Well, at least one person among us has decided to do something about things. It’s possible she will become one of the “theys” we wag our fingers at.

Even in a well-mannered suburban village, running for elected office is not for the faint of heart. The first step is getting on the ballot.

Gennifer Geer secured nearly double the signatures needed to qualify by sharing her vision for the city. And as she listens her ideas will evolve.

If elected, she would represent around 8,600 residents in a ward of mostly historic homes and apartments dating back to the Civil War.

The retirement of a seven-term council member offers an opportunity to explore new ideas and to evaluate old ones long on the books. A previous city council, for example, proclaimed the village to be a “nuclear-free zone.”

Gennifer advocates for fiscal sobriety, green spaces, bike lanes and charging stations. She thinks participatory budgeting and rank-choice voting offer promise.

She jokes that running for office has made her more visible and that she’ll be staying on her “best behavior.” When public hearings drag on past midnight – and speakers blow past their allotted minutes – a easy sense of humor like hers is a point of survival.

You may want to stop in and share a cup of coffee. The candidate’s more than little interesting and she may soon be the “they’ you’ll call when that downed tree is still blocking your back alleyway.

She had hoped her older sons would do the dirty work she’d put off doing since last Christmas.Each year the mother of three decorated her house, set out a manger, baked cookies. There was a feast that ended with plum pudding.

Year after year, those holiday obligations fell upon her alone.

Yet there was one particular chore she had avoided: telling the baby of the family that she’d been lying about Santa Claus.

He’d heard the rumors on the playground, of course, but refused to listen. He had a lot invested in whole North Pole and reindeer thing.

Leading up to the holidays each year, he would make a point of turning conspicuously good – good for goodness sake. His wish list to Santa grew exponentially.

Now seventy-two years later, he still recalls exactly when and where “The Talk” took place.

His mother picked him from school to get new shoes and then an ice cream at the drug store. She’d parked the Plymouth in a metered space just off the main drag.

She lit a cigarette, and there was no hiding the facial tic she suffered when she was nervous. She proceeded to tie herself in knots trying to explain why and how the truth can be “fudged” without it being a sin.

He embraced his mother’s explanation without question and then later went on to pursue a career in advertising.

That Christmas Eve, Mary and George Funk came over from next door, and as always they brought the expensive boxed chocolates people without kids have laying around the house. He called first dibs on the ones with nuts.

“The Christmas Carol” came on at 10 p.m. and the boy was allowed to stay up with the adults to watch it to the end. He curled up on the couch next his mom who, for whatever reason, fell asleep during the opening title. He would fill her in on what she’d missed the next morning.

The man surprised his wife by offering to do the cooking every other week. He’d been listening to public radio.Barely an evening went by without someone telling her how wonderful her kitchen smelled. But they weren’t allowed to ask what was on the menu before dinner was served.

Her husband always washed the dishes. It was an arrangement both of them found comfortable.

One evening he surprised her by offering to do the cooking every other week. “It’s only fair,” he said. He’d been shamed by a domestic-equity expose on NPR.

He had recipes from his single days but he was determined to expand his repertoire beyond ground beef. To his credit he never resorted to emergency scrambled eggs.

He learned from The Food Network which spices combine to add depth and subtlety. His wife had a lazy-Susan filled with of seasonings. How hard could this be?

The woman shopped for weekly specials. Unfortunately he wasn’t capable of planning an entire week’s menu so he ran out every several days and bought things she already had in the refrigerator.

Another complication was that she could fit an array of utensils into very tight quarters. He was never able to crack her algorithm, after he took things out they wouldn’t go back in.

Family etiquette didn’t allow her to complain about the meals he served, so she started to critique the pans he chose to fry things. She complained when he dirtied test bowls before finding the right size. She challenged his presentation skills.

Finally, she flatly refused to wash some pots he had burnt. Since doing the dishes was her job when he cooked, she was now in blatant violation of their new contract.

“Okay, I quit,” he said. “I’m not cooking anymore…AND IT SERVES YOU RIGHT!!!!”

The woman turned away to hide her smile. What she didn’t want her husband to realize was how desperately she wanted him out of her kitchen.

And he was more than happy to play along. What he didn’t want her to know is how much he wanted things to get back to the way they used to be, back before NPR nearly destroyed their happy home.

LisbonThey travel the world in the search for ‘authentic’ experiences but here they stand, lined up fifty deep, desperate for a fix of comfort food.

“How was the food?”

That’s a question friends will ask when they return home from the far ends of the earth.

Experiencing a region’s cuisine, whether Sri Lanka, Hungary or Patagonia is part of what we have in mind when we book our itineraries.

Travel only exacerbates the reality that what we eat and at what time of the day we eat it, plays a role in our well-being. Hotel breakfast buffets are filled with foods your stomach may refuse to recognize before noon.

Sometimes the miseries we blame on food poisoning is actually caused by overindulgence – too many shop windows with irresistible temptations.

We crave simple sustenance when we’re under stress from boarding the wrong train or reserving a hotel room for the wrong date.

Travel sites know that ‘comfort food’ is an powerful magnet, ditto for burgers or the mention of bacon (although what’s served up as such may be unrecognizable.)

The draw of an insanely popular restaurant in Lisbon’s Restauradores Station district is a humble roasted chicken. Travel-weary tourists stroll or uber back to their hotels with renewed strength to face yet another day on vacation.

Note to world: Is peanut butter too much to ask?