The wife and I were down in the village this afternoon when it started to snow. I told her about an e-mail I got this morning from my friend Rich out in Long Beach, California. He pointed out that it would be 80 degrees there today, 30 in New York. Then he quoted Randy Newman’s “I Love L.A.” I replied, taking the bait as I always do, and questioned his manhood. But as the wife and I walked west into the wind, I cursed him again, thinking 80 degrees didn’t sound so bad after all.
We stopped by the Chelsea Market. I hadn’t been there in years. I got a baguette from Amy’s Bread and went to Buon Italia, one of the most comprehensive Italian markets in the city. It can be pricey, but it is worth it.
We puttered around, looked at the expensive cheese and chocolate. Got a can of La Valle tomatoes, my favorite brand.
I browsed the jams and the wife said, “What is a Quince, Alex?” Rosie Perez, her best movie impression. So I picked out a jar of Quince jam. Then we got some nice buccatini pasta, the hollow spaghetti that the wife loves.
Then we stood in front of a case of cured pork products. The wife looked at the rolls of pancetta and sides of ham and frowned. “That is so gross.”
“It is heaven,” I said.
“Funny how two people can look at the same thing and have such opposite reactions,” she said. I repeated the line back to her twenty minutes later when we passed a parked car with a pug sitting in the passenger’s seat.
When we got back to the Bronx, the snow was covering the cars and three garbage trucks were rolling up Riverdale avenue plowing the street.
Then we were upstairs, warm and dry. NFL playoffs, a cup of tea, and some butter and quince jam on a baguette. Kittens. Wife. A perfect way to beat the cold.