Our NYC going-away party had a Country Mouse theme, which I mentioned to Abby when we recently caught our second mouse in a glue trap. Seemed funny to mention, but it's hard to be cute when you're dumping a dead animal in the compost bucket.

But are we in The Country? I honestly don't know.

I grew up like 22 minutes from here, in Southampton, Mass. People always assume I'm from Long Island when I mention this — it's not a well-known town. (Exception: It was featured in an iconic episode of This American Life.) Southampton, Pop. 6,100, has a suburban feel to it; I lived in a mustard-yellow ranch house on a cul de sac. Out of the 6 towns that attended my regional high school, mine was the biggest and the bougiest.

Now that I've moved back to the area, though, I find myself uncertain about where my childhood lies on the city/country spectrum. What is the boundary between rural and exurban life? A smattering of memories:

1. My mom warning us not to go in the woods during hunting season, when jacked-up pickup trucks would go offroad near the train tracks.
2. Weekly trips to the dump to "help my parents" (aka, look at the collection of free junk the dump workers would leave out).
3. Dairy farms that scented the air.
4. Bonfire parties in the woods.
5. The creek that ran through our backyard.
6. Forty minutes on the bus to reach my tiny high school (graduating class of less than 100).

Working in agriculture media has gotten me all turned around, though. Reporting assignments in rural Iowa and Kansas and Wisconsin have showed me just how remote you can get. Compared to where my homie Darby lives in Montana, Southampton feels downright metropolitan.

So I've grown accustomed to thinking of my childhood as suburban-ish, but it's all on a spectrum. Yesterday, after spending an hour shoveling out our dirt driveway, Abby spotted a wild turkey near the hospital. Then we went to the winter farmer's market in the senior center, where we bought root veggies and quail eggs.

Am I weirdly sheepish that we went to an art film later in the evening? Does our access to $15 cocktails and hot yoga blunt any claims of rural living? Is my handwringing over this matter totally insufferable?

I should probably talk about groceries now. We're still running down the clock on items we brought from Harlem.

xo,

Jesse

This tiny little snack bar was hiding in the crisper, a Manhattan stowaway. The flavor was awfully strong, well beyond the standard level of aged Colby. (Also, I suspect the Tillamook company doesn't like me much.)

I hate gimmicky products that ramp up their core chemistry, but at least this pasta tasted normal — I made it with some top-shelf chicken parm. Still, I'm reminded of this old gag.

Again, is this Swiss cheese alarmingly strong because it's imported from the storied Alp mountains — or is just very old?

(Why is my thumb wet, you ask? Keep scrolling, weirdo.)

I bought a bag of this in Harlem, then accidentally left it in my satchel overnight. Such a waste! So we marked it with a big Magic Marker X and planned to use the tainted goodies as dog treats. I also went back to the store and bought a replacement, so we had a dog bag and a human bag side by side in the freezer.

Last week I knocked out some killer Spaghetti allo Scoglio with the non-poisoned one. Pretty sure Abby thought I had mixed up the bags.

Strongly recommend getting an industrial-sized bag of dried onions like this — good on everything! Just about.