I've been in New York for some meetings, which always requires a big mental readjustment. I used to find NYC agitating and overly intense, but now I find it deeply restful, as all my most pressing obligations are on another coast. The other day, when I was in the middle of a meeting, I got a call on my cell phone from a neighbor telling me that seven of our chickens were running around on the street back in California. My heart sank. I love those silly chickens. I explained my situation to the neighbor and she agreed to catch them and toss them over the fence into our yard. Her exact words: "It will be an adventure." We have very nice neighbors.
Two hours later my husband called and bellowed, "I came home and our yard is full of chickens that don't belong to us." He sorted it all out, returned the wandering chickens to their rightful owner. He's not a fan of chickens, but he's a very nice husband.
Today, I ordered an obscenely large pastrami sandwich at the Carnegie Deli. It was sort of raucous and fun and touristy, but I just can't eat that much pastrami anymore. I would have wrapped up the pound-and-a-half of leftover fatty pink meat and rye bread and carried it cross-country to the chickens, but I'm actually supposed to fly to Israel tonight. It's a food-oriented trip, so I'll try to post daily about goat farms and spice markets, and will resume Pioneer Woman when I return.
Although. This weather. It's raining and gusting pretty violently out there and I have a hard time believing that a plane can take off into this muck.