Hummus
& Pita

Some people come to the course to win. My Aunt Ruth comes to the course to narrate.

"Oh, that's breaking," she said, as my putt on the 5th broke. "Oh, that's going to be short," she said, as it was short. Seventy-three years old, a visor the size of a satellite dish, and she had not missed a read all afternoon.

It was a bright Tuesday in late summer, hot enough to make the greens run fast and the conversation slow. We took a break on the patio at PopStroke Waterford Lakes, under an umbrella, and I ordered the Hummus & Pita, because Ruth said she wanted "something sensible."

It arrived looking anything but sensible. It looked like a celebration. Smooth and creamy hummus, swirled into a shallow bowl like the contour lines of a tiered green. A dusting of Tajin across the top, bright and tangy, a little sunburn of flavor. Green onions scattered with intent. A glossy ribbon of olive oil pooling in the hollows. And beside it, warm flatbread, soft, folded, steam still rising when you tore it open.

Ruth tore off a piece, swept it through the best hummus either of us could remember, and closed her eyes.

"Now that," she said, "is a good read."

We went back out. On the 6th, a long downhill lag, she said nothing at all. I rolled it to six inches. She just nodded, chewing, and handed me the last of the flatbread.