I’m in Cambridge now, where it’s reasonably warm, although the massive piles of snow from the blizzards that inundated Boston haven’t yet disappeared. And it happens to be 6 a.m. at the moment—a time that as you see, is way too early for The Furry Princess of Poland.
Hili: 6 a.m.
A: So what?
Hili: It’s difficult to be an epicure at such a barbaric time.
In Polish:
Hili: Szósta rano.
Ja: No to co?
Hili: Trudno być epikurejką o tak barbarzyńskiej porze.
I have found that my own capacity for epicuriousness (epicuriosity?) at 6AM is a function of whether I am just getting up (coffee and maybe – maybe – a bagel) or still up (steak and eggs and potatoes and pie and a Bloody Mary).
The first coffee of the day is always a treat.
But I am not a cat. 😺
Later in the day, Hili will go for the epicure.
What? Hili would deny herself the Epicurean pleasure of noms based on such a pedestrian notion as the time of day?
Are we sure the Polish has been properly translated today? That the streams haven’t been crossed?
b&