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Going Home: The Emerald Rose Irish Pub

Turkey, wine and memories at The Emerald Rose Irish Pub.

(Photo: Billerica)

(Photo: Billerica)

My cousin walks in the door and bows her head as she speaks to the woman at the front desk.

She announces we have an 11:30am reservation for ‘Ercolini’.

The woman at the front desk takes off her glasses and her eyes lit up with recognition and happiness.

She embraced my mom like you would embrace an old friend finally coming home.
(Photo: "Hug by Ally Sanchez)

(Photo: “Hug by Ally Sanchez)


We shuffled into the restaurant, sliding our marshmallow jackets in between white tablecloth tables with single roses.


The general manager came out from behind the kitchen counter and hugged my mom like he was our distant uncle we only saw on holidays. Warm and longing to hear all of her stories.

Food was brought to us like Meme was cooking it in her kitchen. There was cheese and bread and warm conversation.
(Photo by Emily Ercolini)

(Photo by Emily Ercolini)


and sweet squash

and gravy

and cranberries

and cider

and laughter.

Suddenly I was sitting at our kitchen table on Lindenwood Road.

My mom had spent all day roasting a turkey.

She mashed potatoes with care and weight watchers.

The light shines through the side doors, kisses the table and wraps me in warmth as I watch the crisp trees.
(Photo by Emily Ercolini)

(Photo by Emily Ercolini)

My grandmother would have used excessive butter.

Suddenly I was entertaining my grandparents and great aunts and uncles.

I was picking the tails off of shrimp.

I was pouring wine for my sister.

I was turning on the Christmas music

I was slipping off my shoes.

My mom was setting the table so we could share a meal together before my Dad needed to get to work.

He hated going to work. But the restaurant industry was unapologetic.

But I was in his restaurant now. And my dad’s framed picture was on the wall here.
(Photo by Emily Ercolini)

(Photo by Emily Ercolini)

And the wait staff told stories about him. And the wait staff looked at my sister and I like we were long lost family members.

They looked at us like their own children. They hugged us like their own children.

They looked at us like we were home.

Someone else’s mom made the turkey. Someone else’s dad mashed the potatoes. Someone’s grandma poured the apple cider.

But it felt warm and happy and comfortable.

Like home.
(Photo by Emily Ercolini)

(Photo by Emily Ercolini)

So if you’re in Massachusetts, and you don’t pronounce all of the syllables in Billerica.

The Emerald Rose
785 Boston Rd
Billerica, MA

This is Emily Ercolini’s first Waddle story.

Boston born, Brooklyn based photographer // emily-ercolini.squarespace.com

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BillericaIrish Pubmemories

Emily Ercolini • January 9, 2017

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