Cheese, toast and pouncing kitties

On Friday we move to the South End, which has a bunch of little shops and restaurants, and we’ve had fun exploring the area. Our realtor had mentioned Formaggio which bills itself as a neighborhood shop for epicurean delights with a worldly feel.

We were intrigued just by the description, although you sure wouldn’t think all that would be available in the dinky store. But the store more than lives up to its billing. We could hardly take everything in, that place is just packed to the gills with a bazillion cheeses and meats and pastas and wine and—well you get the idea. Kent turned to me and whispered, “There are eight different kind of goat cheese!” Keep in mind he didn’t mean eight different flavorings; we are talking about different cheeses from different regions. He said, “You know what this means?” We can never move back to Kansas City.”

Yes I know KC has the Better Cheddar, but trust me when I say the difference between the two shops is as drastic as the difference between Better Cheddar and the grocery store dairy section.

I’ve started eating a piece of toast on run mornings before I head out. It’s very foreign to me to eat breakfast so soon after getting up, but I’ve found that I need something in my tummy or else I get nauseous while running.

Ah pouncing kitties . . . how I love thee. I must since they are still alive this morning. OK to be fair I need to put the blame where it belongs, squarely on Wally. He’s got a game he plays with me at night when we go to bed. When I get under the covers, that’s his sign to absolutely go ballistic on my feet. He bites, scratches and uses his back legs like a demented bunny if I so much as think about moving a toe. I’m fine with the game at bedtime. I’m not fine with the game at 3:30 AM, especially since the middle of the night game also includes pouncing on my hands which might be on my belly. Ooof.