sunday, we took our usual walk in central park, meandered slowly through the european paintings wing at the met, and paused many moments to study pissarro's the boulevard montmartre on a winter morning. it reminded us of paris, one year ago, and i added pissarro to my list of people and words and ideas i want to know more about. we warmed up afterward across the street at cafe sabarsky over viennese sipping chocolate, mulled wine with cloves, and this week's issue of the new yorker. back at home, i slipped into a hot bath (there is nothing more luxurious than a soak in the middle of the afternoon) and husband fell asleep in our treehouse's sunniest spot and i moved about the kitchen starting sunday supper and stealing peeks at my sweet, sleeping love, thinking --
if our children are anything like their mother, they're going to ask for great detail about our days before they came along and i must remember to tell them of this one.