There will be pancakes

Yesterday was a bit of a doozy.

Forget the fact that we had a bumpy re-entry, but I woke up with yet another set of maladies which made for a rough first-morning-back-to-work. Then of course the actual act of going back to work. Followed by a semi-big decision that R and I had to make. And then a few hours later, an even-bigger decision was made for me, which throws everything back into the blender again.

All of that equals a somewhat rumpled in body, mind and spirit J returning home last night.

But, there was wine waiting. The discovery of new-to-me White Collar episodes available online. And, comfy pajamas. All of which were at least a temporary panacea to my blue spirit.

R went to bed, but I stayed up glued to my screen doing research to counteract the aforementioned myriad of somewhat disturbing decisions. As I clicked around online, I also kept a chat box open. Typing here and there, simultaneously. A friend reminded me that every down is followed by an up and all we know is that. And all we have is the ability to enjoy the moment that we're in. Wholly, completely, unquestionably.

Who needs to meditate when you can make pancakes?

Which is why I woke up early today to make the most of my morning, cooking a proper breakfast for R and myself while he was still sleeping. His weekend started today and he's worked every day since we came back from vacation, including a 7AM start when we arrived home only 6 hours previously, so I don't know who was more excited about this, me or him.

On the menu were a batch of silky, eggy, proper French crepes with apricot jam for him, and butternut squash flapjacks (making use of my abundance from Sunday) with a side of bacon for me. A piping hot moka and a pitcher of cream rounded us out.

In the name of doing more kind things for ourselves, R met me in the evening in Soho, looking dapper in his white dress shirt edged in purple (my favorite). He took my bag and we ambled down Mulberry Street, finally able to take nice deep breaths as we walked. Autumn in New York is conducive to proper inhales. Summer, with its ability to turn garbage bags lining the sidewalk into highly odoriferous obstacles, not so much.

Never was a wait so enjoyable

We turned left on Grand Street and popped into Di Palo Fine Foods and took a number. And then we waited. And waited. The neighborhood salumeria doesn't care if you're tired or have heavy bags. The proprietors talk to most everyone. Chatting about nothing and everything while they weigh your provolone, your sausages, your fresh ravioli and fettuccine. I people watched, surprised as always to see how encroaching neighborhoods create unexpected mixes. The Italian-American man with a Chinese-American wife making a quick trip down from their apartment upstairs because they forgot something for their dinner. Both speaking the others language. The Indonesian tourists on the border of Chinatown, hungry for Italian.

R ambled about the display cases, waiting for number 80 to be called. Watching a mother try to calm her daughter who wanted nothing to do with a taste of almond cookies. When he was finally called up he placed our order and watched as a little tub of burrata was snapped closed, a satiny pile of mortadella and prosciutto crudo was sliced off of the weft on the counter, and the exact right cotoletta was chosen.

Then home, the long way, on foot.

Another glass of wine. Another escape to Puerto Rico-cum-Capo Verde. A few squares of dark chocolate with chili. And then a few minutes here, capturing the day for myself and to share with you.

And even though the balance doesn't seem quite right, somehow today's goodness far outweighs yesterday's lack of it.

I think I'll sleep just fine tonight.