Decided to make molasses slab cookies.
And went to Chubby's. I had to go to Chubby's. It's what has been the ritual in Papi Butch's world for a couple decades now. You know, your local neighborhood bar built out of a barn where you can get ice cream, cigarettes, pizza, and whiskey shots. Oh, there's candy, too, and a pool table.
Good ol' family joint, where if you have too much you can always walk home - I think that is the success of the joint (and you get to meet all the fun neighbors). Last night was a corn hole tournament, although I didn't play. I ate Val's wings, caught up with one of my dad's friend's son, and chatted with the Perras (although I wish we had more time).
It's not a return home without a visit to Syracuse's strangest joint. At this point, it's so much a part of the ritual, that I don't even question it any more.