Lately I've been dreaming about houses. Country houses with cranberry bogs, airy kitchens, porches ... just the basics, really. There's nothing I'd like better right now than to ride out the winter in a farmhouse somewhere upstate, armed to the teeth with books, DVDs and indexed recipe cards. But apparently they have this thing called money now and if you take the whole winter off, you don't get any.
However, I've been doing a fairly decent job riding my bike around Brooklyn and pretending I live somewhere else, going for rambles in Green-wood Cemetery, and making spiced apple cider to make the kitchen smell more like I imagine my country house, Spinster's Folly, would smell.
Before this devolves into the most wistful post ever, let it be said that I've been doing just fine as far as the barricading/DVD/book thing is going, and that, really, you can do that just about anywhere. Also, in the country you have to drive.