For the past few weeks I’ve been staying with my aunt while in transition from my old apartment to my new house. Having lived alone for so long, being around people in a domestic situation has made one thing very clear: I do things slowly.
My grandmother’s cousin, Bette, always makes fun of “us Americans” (she’s English) for our out-of-date tea kettles. She has one of those fancy electric contraptions that boils your water in what seems like seconds, while we continue to insist on using old fashioned kettles on the stove. I can’t imagine ever using one of those new-fangled contraptions for my tea.
It’s not just my tea, though. If there’s the option to heat something up on the stove, or in the oven, I always forego the microwave. I actually like doing dishes by hand (though I know it’s not as green as a dishwasher and therefore will give it up when I finally get into the new house).
Perhaps this is why I never quite understand what people are talking about when they go on and on about the northeast being too fast-paced. I am forever wondering why, if they don’t like the pace of something, they don’t just slow down.