Grilled Citrus
Chicken

My mother does not believe in hurrying. Not in traffic, not at the grocery store, and certainly not on a putting green.

A Sunday in May. Warm, breezy, lilacs somewhere nearby. She took four practice strokes before every putt and narrated each one, the way a sportscaster calls a horse race. "Here we go. Looks a little left. Bit of a hill."

On the thirteenth at PopStroke The Colony she faced a lag putt of fifty feet, maybe more, across two slopes and a gentle tier. She addressed it for what felt like a fiscal quarter. Then she rolled it, and it wandered, and it wondered, and it settled eighteen inches from the cup. She tapped in for par and said, "See? No hurry."

Lunch, then, on the patio. She ordered the grilled citrus chicken, and so did I, because one does not argue with a woman who just two-putted from fifty feet.

A grilled chicken breast with a citrus glaze, glossy and tangy and gently sweet. Topped with mango salsa, golden and juicy, like sunshine diced into cubes. Over a bed of cilantro lime rice, fragrant and fresh. Steamed vegetables beside it, tender and bright and good for you in a way that doesn't feel like a lecture.

She ate slowly. Naturally.

Then she folded her napkin and asked if I'd like to play the back nine twice.