No, it’s not a typo.  That’s how a restaurant in South Haven, Michigan, spells its name. And that’s what the menu is all about.  It’s mostly small plates and martinis.  And it’s delicious.

Earl, his daughter, his son-in-law, and I met tonight for early supper. We won’t be together for this week’s Thanksgiving feast, so we wanted to celebrate early. And also coordinate plans for the rest of the year’s festivities with our extended families.

But back to the food.  The first time around, we sampled potato pancakes, stuffed mushrooms, and bleu cheese with honey and bread rounds. Next we went with fish tacos, Reuben mac and cheese (Outside of macaroni, you can imagine what this recipe includes.) and more potato pancakes.  In fact, I finished them off as the other diners faded.

We discussed holiday gift ideas, what it means to be mortal, and the Springfield, Illinois, of Abraham Lincoln.  We cringed regularly as a woman at the bar offered up a laugh that wasn’t contagious but certainly distracting. And we agreed that we’re all getting older and slower but still enjoying life.

The weather outside was not fit for “man nor beast” (phrase originally credited to W.C. Fields), but over two hours we truly had a taste of everything that’s worth sampling.

Today two friends, C and S, and I visited the local Aldi’s.  Recently, it was closed for about a month for considerable remodeling and re-opened the beginning of November. We figured we’d given it time to work out the bugs.

For the uninitiated, Aldi’s is a no-frills grocery store; you bring your own sacks and you bag your own groceries. It doesn’t take credit cards either. But armed with our cloth grocery bags, we paid a quarter for a cart with the intention of sharing it. (If you bring the cart back to the corral, you get your quarter back. Think about it; this saves on staff running to the parking lot to collect errant carts.)

As we entered the establishment, C was our guide. She shops here regularly and had commented more than once that the cheeses, marinated artichokes, and pizelles are wonderful.  All those items are expensive at a higher end store, which is one reason S and I were along for the ride. Another reason was that we had $5 coupons off any total purchase of $30.

Not that it took three of us to spend $30.  In fact our combined purchases were closer to $180.  But C got Christmas gifts, S got things for tonight’s supper, and I – who swore I was just a spectator — got chocolate turtles, fresh blackberries, and Brussel sprouts.

S and I agreed we should shop here more often, partly because we also found a ton of laughs in the deal.  But then we always do.

In another era, I would have been called a Renaissance Man (Women weren’t acknowledged much back then.), since my interests are varied, and I want to excel at them all. In fact, when I went to college a gazillion years ago, the university I attended prided itself on creating the “Whole Man.” I offer myself as Exhibit A.

There are problems, however. And mostly they deal with finding time to do all the things I want to do:  become better at piano, crochet, read, write, clean house (Yes, clean house), travel, ruminate, exercise, bake, practice yoga, understand social media, meet friends for coffee, pay bills (Yes, that to.) and simply sit still.

So I’m devising a program by which to allot equal time to each of these endeavors.  I call it the “Thirty Minute Plan,” and so far it’s in beta testing. I do each activity for thirty minutes, allowing that if I’m in the middle of something crucial when the timer dings I can finish it.

Did I mention the timer? It’s my boss. And even then, I must decide which activities I’m going to approach on any given day, because I have more “likes” than I have hours that I’m awake when you factor in bathing, eating, and communicating with my husband. I certainly can’t ignore those things for the sake of the timer.

What have I learned so far?

Thirty minutes is a good amount of time to focus on something without succumbing to distractions.  If the phone rings when I’m practicing piano, I can ignore it and know that a response is only minutes away.  If I’m not enjoying one of the activities for whatever reason, I can endure it for half an hour.

At the same time, thirty minutes isn’t very long at all.  In fact, it makes for a choppy approach to the day. There are times when I could spend an entire afternoon on one thing, and the timer works against this. Still, I’m committed to trying the thirty minute approach for a while in the hope that the things I truly want to spend time on will – like cream – rise to the top.  I’ll go from there.

There were supposed to be six of us; when you’re retired you have the luxury of such excursions on a weekday, but you also have health issues that intervene.  So today four of us headed to Chicago and the Russian Tea Time Restaurant.

Stepping into Russian Tea Time is like stepping into another world.  A most civilized host with an accent greets you and escorts you to a table while Russian music swirls about.  We resisted dancing as we shed jackets, stowed handbags, and settled in. Our server, whose name we never got so I’ll call him ‘Ivan’, was there in an instant offering Russian tea.  Of course we nodded “Yes” in unison, and he went off to get it while we studied the menu and weighed the merits of mushroom barley soup over borscht.

Ivan returned, not only with tea but also with both white and brown sugar cubes — How civilized! — lemons, and small cookies. He poured our tea, gave instructions on how Russians drink it, and answered our questions.

Are the potato pancakes crispy? “For you, Madam, I make them crispy,” Ivan said.

Is the borscht served cold? “In winter, we serve everything hot,” he said.

Would you get the Vareniki or the Piroshkies? He pointed to the Piroshkies.

Our questions answered, we ordered and returned to sipping tea. It was a perfect antidote to anything that ailed us, and we thought of the two friends who weren’t able to come.

Then Ivan brought bread, and we swooned collectively.  It must have been obvious, since Ivan said that sometimes there were loaves for sale, and we promptly ordered them.

So it went. Soup. Pancakes. Piroshkies. And for dessert bread pudding split four ways.

As we dined, we noticed small touches. The tables had tablecloths. The flowers were real. The service was impeccable. Ivan kept replenishing both our water and our tea. He even brought four forks and four small plates for the bread pudding and a knife to cut it.  I suspect it was an extra large portion too.

We all agreed the only thing missing was our two friends who had to cancel at the last minute. So we decided we needed a return visit to Russian Tea Time. If you’re interested you can visit the restaurant’s website, www.russianteatime.com; but I assure you it doesn’t provide a real sense of the ambience.