For the record, I do leave the apartment sometimes. I'm still on hiatus from my 10,000-steps-daily pedometer habit, because my knees hurt (and one heel) and I think they want a decent rest. But I don't spend my days lying around in fuzzy sweaters and pajamas, trying to figure out how many cats we have. Well, actually, I do. But only in the mornings and evenings.
In the afternoon, I go out. I walk. For one thing, I go to That Darned Patisserie on Newbury Street to buy fantastic, four-dollar baguettes almost every day. Their sign just says "Patisserie" but, the shop shall be known here as TDP henceforth. They exert an ungodly hold on you after you try their bread, cookies, and pastries. They also have a little table set up with irresistible samples of cheese, crackers, jam, bread, and an addictive white truffle oil. Do yourself a favor and stay out of there. I'm not just saying that because I often get their last baguette, and I want to keep it that way. But that's mostly why I'm saying it. That lone baguette is mine.
Don't ask me why I go anywhere but TDP when my favorite landscapes have been transformed into grim Siberian tundra:
The Public Garden Lagoon, facing Beacon Street. Bleah.
The Public Garden Lagoon, facing Boylston Street. Bleah.
Attention, yarn bombers and guerrilla knitters: the kid in the fountain needs a cardigan.
I will say, though, that neighbors who take the trouble to fill their window boxes and urns in winter deserve our special gratitude because they give us what little color and beauty we have. I love the icicles on this windowbox. And check out the feathers:
Today I walked to the MFA and the Athenaeum and TDP (and got the last baguette), and logged more than 13,000 steps. I froze, I slipped on ice patches, and I didn't see much besides that window box to feel cheery about. I also worried about the people on Beacon Street who still have a live tree in their window. Should we call for a well-being check?
And now I'm going to put on my fuzzy sweater and try to figure out how many cats we have.