My father had a thoroughly unappreciated talent for picking restaurants.
I was one of the unappreciators. Dad would park the old family car in front of some dive, and my brother and sister and I would start whining from the back seat:
Not again. Not another dump. I'm not going in. I'm not eating here. Why can't we ever go someplace nice? Why can't we be like normal families?
Of course, we did go in. And we ate. At this Stroud's -- which was unappealingly located smackdab on a busy street and under a bridge -- we ate a lot. Scrumptious chicken, mashed potatoes, cinnamon rolls. Then we'd grudgingly toss Dad a "thank you" bone on the way out.
Dad had a talent. We never trusted it and we never appreciated it. Sound familiar? It's easy to judge a restaurant by its doorway. It's harder to trust someone's innate skill.
Today, give trust a try.
And if you ever have a chance to eat at Stroud's, forget your diet. Enjoy the gravy.