Little Slice of Normal

Last night, Zach and I took a walk through our neighborhood, popped into the new cheese shop that opened around the block (danger, Will Robinson!), and tried a new spot for dinner. We had really yummy food, marred only by the fact that we were eating outside—aka the place the smokers would come periodically to get their fix, sending odoriferous carcinogens wafting our way. But again, the food was really yummy, and the company was grand. Then we walked back, picking up, in our South Park-inspired lingo, a little desserty-poof along the way. About a block from home, we ran into our neighborhood fishmonger and his girlfriend on the street and had a nice little chat with them. And then we came home, settled in on the couch, dug into our respective desserty-poofs, turned on the TiVo, and watched the last two episodes of Top Chef, to which we had become addicted this season.

It was nothing special and nothing fancy, just a low-key, perfectly lovely evening—the kind we used to have all the time.

In other words, it was bliss.