Domestic

Last Friday night, with the whole city of San Francisco towering above me, I passed out. At 10 pm. Flat on my back, in all my clothes, mid-way through a conversation about what we were going to do. I just shut my eyes, and when I opened them again, I realized I'd fallen asleep.

"You mind if we don't do anything else?"

CT looked at me solemnly.

"It's like a big weight has been lifted from my shoulders."

The trip has been a study in contrasts. San Fran is all narrow streets and vertiginously high hills, hydro wires and bus cables and sharp corners and bustle and noise. Davis is flat, not quite prairie flat, but flatter than Ottawa, even, with wide bike lanes on every road and even wider suburban streets lined with low-slung houses and citrus trees.

I don't know why this is such a shock to me, but lemons grow on trees. Everywhere. So do oranges and tangerines. And grapefruit. It's like when I discovered that garlic is a plant, and doesn't come in two varieties - salt and powder.

It's not like I didn't know that citrus grow on trees. I just never imagined it. It never occurred to me that people would *own* such trees, and that the fruit of said trees would be so abundant that they'd let it fall and rot on the ground, because what are you going to do with 6 dozen grapefruit hanging out in your backyard?

I never once imagined picking a perfectly good lemon out of the neighbours garbage. I never one imagined making my 6'4" temporary live-in boyfriend scrump one for me from a random tall branch almost overhanging the sidewalk.

All I want to do is wander around the neighbourhood with my tall friend and gorge myself on oranges. It delights me.

Also, it is 8 pm and the kitchen window is wide open.

I'm roasting a chicken. CT will be back home from his class in less than an hour. The two of us, plus his two roommates, will sit down to snacks and wine first, then the chicken with garlic mashed potatoes and sauteed green beans. The eating out was fun, but man, I'm glad to get back to my ancient grains and dark greens and oatmeal in the morning.

There's a hippie co-op grocery store just a short walk away from here, and so far, I've spent hours wandering around its aisles, looking at prices, ogling the four varieties of kale, being shocked by the long aisles of wine made Right Over There, filling tubs too full olives from just beyond the city limits.