My week was spent in Ashton, Illinois. General Mills sent me along with Sylvia to help set up the sensory training for the people at the plant. It had been a while since my eyes had scanned the flat fields that make up the Midwestern breadbasket, and the five hour ride in the white Impala was comfortable.
Upon arrival to Rochelle, we stopped at Sullivan’s for the few refrigerated groceries that we would need for samples the next morning. Morgan was waiting for us in the parking lot of the Comfort Inn, so we got our room keys, dropped our luggage off, then headed across the street for dinner.
The Beacon: Steak & Cocktails. Wood floors. Booths. Dim candle light. Muted Jazz. White table cloths and cloth napkins. Good choice. We snapped the sesame flat breads into smaller pieces before spreading them with the artichoke spinach appetizer that Sylvia had chosen. The young couple shared their story of meeting at West Chicago, each providing their own perspective on the happy reminiscence. The bread bowl diminished as we continued in polite conversation, and soon the waiter came with our salads. We passed on the beef that evening. Chicken Vessuvius with fettuccini and peas in a white wine sauce was my choice. The others had manicotti, and some sort of baked spaghetti. The conversation turned to faith and a little bit of philosophy. Too soon we boxed up the remains of the chicken and pastas, and returned to the hotel. Morgan’s parting remark was to the effect that he believed in God, but that he didn’t think that organized religion was a good idea.