We got the fancy beer for the first time in a month, but not the other beer.
Instead of 2 cartons of a dozen eggs, we got 2 cartons of 18 eggs. Really, for two weeks, we could’ve gotten away with just 18 eggs.
We had fried eggs on toast this morning, a luxury with the nice bread from the bakery I picked up yesterday. The bakery run was mostly to make sure we got flour.
And pie. I got a pie.
On my rainy walk, I passed a family that seemed to be dressed up—at least for rainy Saturday afternoon in Portland standards—with umbrellas, walking together. It’s not the first time I’ve gotten the suspicion that some church in my neighborhood is still functioning in some way that people are leaving their houses for.
A few wet blocks later, I passed a church that’s definitely closed. “God heals,” says its signboard, “But wash your hands.” Three people were standing in the parking lot holding a banner.
I smiled at them.
Then I cried, just a little.
I’m starting to daydream about restaurants.
Ever since I read the word “budino,” I’ve been thinking about sitting at the bar at Nostrana, drinking a Campari and Soda, cutting my pizza with scissors.
I used to daydream about restaurants all the time, back when I could actually go to them. Which one would I want to try next. Where would I go for my Friday treat. What kind of seasonal menus look good on Instagram.
Now I just want to sit and be surrounded by a human hum.