My semi-vacation continues, leaving me with little to write about on this fine Monday morning. The sky is blue, the sun is bright, and the Red Sox have beaten the Yankees twice in a row–what more could I ask for?

Last night I cooked a fantastic risotto with bay scallops and proscuitto, which elicited a fine complement from my friend. “This is awesome. You never get this kind of stuff outside of a restaurant, and they’d charge 20 bucks a plate for it.”

Tonight I’ll cook grilled polenta, served over fresh linguine. Proscuitto, portabella mushrooms, and capers, oh my. Maybe I’ll take a photo of that one and post it here to torture you.

Buying all this stuff was a strange adventure. Tracking down someone to help us in the seafood department proved more challenging than it should have, and it took nearly twenty minutes to find the polenta. The best part of the trip came at the end, when the little old lady at the checkout smiled, gave us a friendly hello, and starting ringing us up.

Scallops, parmesan cheese, a bottle of white wine, lemon juice, a garlic bulb–she scanned each item and looked at the two of us less and less. Her once-pleasant smile turned upside down, and as we stood there I began to wonder what had brought on this change in demeanor.

Maybe it’s just me, I thought. Maybe I’m imagining this drift from friendly to aloof.

I tried to look at the situation with fresh eyes, peeled back the layer of personal involvement to observe the scene as this old woman might.

We were two relatively clean-cut guys, shopping together, buying all the ingredients for a rich Italian meal. Just two guys, wine and…oh.

“Darn it,” I said, “We forgot to buy candles.”

It took her four tries to punch in the code for the white onion in her hand, as she scrambled to get us rung up and on our way. Out of sight–though with any luck, not out of mind for a good long while.