In a predictable life, Nick and I went shopping this morning at Whole Foods--our Friday AM chore. Of course, our first order of business was checking the progress of the Metropole going up across the street. After months watching the excavation and then the foundation, the construction is in that galloping phase, where a floor (or more) is added a week. Last week, the building had reached street level; this week, one floor and counting. (Apropos of watching buildings being erected: the final quarter I taught English at Georgia Tech, Coca-Cola was building a skyscraper across the street. Try keeping engineering students attention when there's 30 stories of construction going on outside the window.)
Whole Foods was nearly devoid of drama. At the fish counter, we waited while a woman was very deliberate (and time consuming) about her purchase. Finally, she selected her filet, it was weighed, wrapped and handed over to her. She promptly opened her purse and put it inside. The lady fishmonger watched, incredulous. I think the staff was keeping an eye on that woman from then on.
If it is 12:30, I must be at studio cycling. Quiet today: neither Ennis was in the work out room, and only one Jack. The Sidekick-Looking-for-a-Kick adopted a spinning regular (obviously not a regular today since he was out in the weight room). The Sidekick is a sweet looking kid, friendly, somehow just a little too eager in a puppy way to have a buddy. No doubt I over interpret.
The day's drama came at dusk. My cell rang: Brian had parked his car illegally and it had been towed. I arrived home to a scene not without tension. Brian distressed and searching for his car. Nick once-more nonplussed that Brian had gotten another unnecessary ticket. In between stirring the polenta and frying the pork chops, my efforts at mediation failed. Brian snuck out of the house to retrieve his car. I was not happy to call him to dinner and discover he was gone.
Still, the chops were not bad (fried in a cold pan and served with a sauce of red onion, red pepper, smokey mustard and sage); a little kefalotiri cheese punched up the polenta nicely, and the 365 brand Chianti was more than adequate for a Friday night dinner. I groomed the dog as Nick cleaned dishes, Brain repossessed his car and grudgingly ate his dinner (and sipped a little of the Chianti) and peace descended upon the valley.