Paul and I are house-sitting in a condo on Marlborough Street. It's the top two floors of a townhouse, and it has a gigantic skylight in the middle of the ceiling. Lying in bed, we can see the top half of the John Hancock Building. We have all of downtown Boston at our fingertips, and I don't think I've ever been more in love with this city. Today I walked to Charlestown to tutor, and I walked back along the Charles among all the joggers and rollerbladers. On Sunday Paul and I took a picnic to the esplanade, and while we sat eating our sandwiches we were approached by a mother duck who stood before us for a solid couple of minutes, seemingly demanding food from us for her and her ducklings. And on Sunday night Paul and I walked to Fenway after the game ended to get dinner at Boston Beer Works , and on our way out of the restaurant, I shoeless college girl, eyes half closed, bowled into me after her less-intoxicated friend begged her to get out of the street and find her shoes. While I remain a Rochesterian at heart, Boston really feels like home.
Today I took some gift cards to Barnes and Noble and bought us the new Barbara Kingsolver non-fiction book, Animal, Vegetable, Miracle: A Year of Food Life. Paul has already read the first few chapters and is trying to figure out how we could eat exclusively local foods. I'm already figuring out how I could cheat. I mean, as incredible and rewarding as the idea sounds, what would I do without coffee? Or wine? Kashi cereal? Bananas? Yikes. He's checking into local farms and farmers markets online in hopes that we could adopt a more local diet to some degree. What an interesting husband I have. At least he does all the cooking.
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