Of Cottage Cheese and Cap’n Crunch
There’s a cat eating my cottage cheese, a Boston Globe strewn across the table and a big grandfather clock ticking absentmindedly in the corner. In other words, I’m home.
Boston in November…
…a few trees left to foliate, a few empty seats on the T, a few overly optimistic squirrels and a few little ducklings from my childhood.
As much as I enjoy life in Sydney – what with its near-perfect weather, dogs and neighbors – there’s something about coming home that makes me feel weightless and grounded at the same time. This is where everything makes sense to me. Where seasons change and it’s not necessary to check your shoes for killer spiders before putting them on. Where Trader Joe’s solves so many of daily life’s little problems. Where maple syrup comes in four grades, drug stores are open 24 hours, and the use of the letter R is totally voluntary.
And for those of you still stuck wondering, “Why in God’s name is she eating cottage cheese?!” the answer is simple: I haven’t been to the supermarket yet. We’ve had a few lovely dinners so far (butterflied chicken, roast beef, key lime pie) but I’ve spent too long pouring over the supermarket inserts in The Globe (Cracker Barrel! French Fried Onions! Crescent Rolls! Brighams! Eggos!), and not enough time actually wandering the aisles. It’s time to go in search of real (possibly fake) food!
Let the cat eat cottage cheese…Just give me my Cap’n Crunch.