Proof of Relative Weirdness

The relative weirdness I'm speaking of is the fact, or sight, of Corrie and I living in, or better yet, inhabiting, the neighborhood we do.

Our skin color sets us apart immediately. The fact we're in our late twenties (or thirty) without kids is another less obvious, but obvious still, fact.

We take old plastic bags back to the bodegas and make sure they use them. We take canvas bags to the grocery stores. These things are definitely happening out here, just not in overwhelming proportions, as is the case in many places around the country (and world).

We grill on our stoop. 

Now, in our window taking up a nice swath of sunlight:

We've already eaten one, and it was fantastic. I was almost out of the market one Saturday, and Corrie reminded me to pick up a tomato plant, or plants, if it were possibly. We'd picked up some of the hanging-garden deals at Lowe's or Home Depot, the kind you hang from a porch or other outdoor area. Basically a two foot long tarp cylinder bag with a hole and washer at the bottom in which the plant would stick out and grow with the aid of gravity, you would fill the top half with dirt.

The smallest plant I could find was that one in the picture. It already had eight or twelve pieces of fruit, some quite large and green, and was too large to try to invert and hang in our front room, which now seems like a rather dangerous (in terms of cleanup) proposition. I knew it would be worth the money even if it didn't grow any more tomatoes.

I carried it on the crowded subway, bumping seated people in the knees and arms, and eventually making it to a bus (transferring trains on the weekend is lame).

So Corrie and I are the weird white people with no kids, a grill on the stoop, and tomatoes in the window sill.