It’s been a monsoon weekend in New England, spurts of miserable drizzle interspersed with lashings of rain. We went to brunch yesterday morning, despondent at the idea of consuming less than a thousand calories for breakfast at home, and meandered our way back, afterward, stopping for presents (I’m going to be an aunt!) and accident reports at the police station. On what the zoning board geek in me calls a mixed commercial-industrial use section of the street where we were walking, our eyes spied a truck from the restaurant we’d just eaten at. It was parked outside a restaurant and party supply place, set back from the street, that neither of us had ever really registered before.
Restaurant and kitchen supply stores are right up there with bookstores and stationery stores as caves of wonder for me, and the sheer amount of shiny stainless steel makes the Better Half’s eyes glaze over, too. We didn’t buy anything, just tooled up and down the aisles admiring five-gallon vats of mustard and olives, and pretending like we had a use for ten gallon stockpots. It’s nice, the surprises you find in what you thought were familiar places.