You better believe that I'll serve it under glass, too.

When we reluctantly moved to the suburbs in winter 2008, many of our still city-dwelling friends tried to comfort us. “Think of all the extra space!” they’d exclaim, patting our backs supportively. “Plus you’re only nine miles outside of Boston.  It’s not like you’re in the boonies!”

Adam and I would chuckle nervously. “Not the boonies!” we’d reply. “Right you are!”

And then spring came and the man who owned the grassy lot across the street appeared and started raising a spring crop of chickens and rototilling the world’s largest and ugliest garden. For weeks, the air was heavy with scent of manure, the scratching of the neighbor’s hoe a constant reminder of the horror across the street.

“WE HAVE MOVED TO THE BOONIES!” I screeched to Adam, sounding not entirely unlike the rooster regularly cock-a-doodle-freakin’-dooing across the street. “I can’t take this, this…this RURAL LIFE,” I continued disconsolately. “I hate it here. It’s so GREEN and PLEASANT. There aren’t even any homeless people around to pick the cans out of our recycling bins. DO YOU KNOW HOW HEAVY OUR RECYCLING BINS ARE NOW?” I screamed, stomping back and forth across our disgustingly large suburban kitchen. “Plus there isn’t a single Thai restaurant in town. And everyone here is SO WHITE.” I then finished up with promises to pack up Aura and return to the city if things didn’t change.

Two years later, I’m calmer. I’m even almost used to the guy across the street, a longwinded and curiously bearded fellow who nonetheless proffers homegrown veggies from time to time. Whenever we chat, I cheerily mention “appearances” and “property values” and the benefits of “attractively walled-in gardens and fowl,” weakening him one loaded hint at a time. As it is, this year he is raising pheasants, not chickens. Pheasants are a much more attractive bird, though I am finding that their mating calls can be rather…startling. Whenever I have the windows open it’s a bit like someone is being murdered, except with more rustling and pecking.

Truth be told, I am actually getting used to all of suburbia. I still detest having to drive instead of walk, but there’s something to be said about people who smile and adequately funded libraries. There isn’t a real independent coffeehouse in sight, but there are lots of parks for Aura and lots of other moms for me and a sturdy school system for the future. And sometime in January a guy actually started driving over and picking through our recycling bins on trash day. I don’t think he’s homeless, but if you squint really hard he might be laid-off, and that’s good enough for me.

Then last week, after dropping off Aura at preschool, I noticed a new sign going up on one of the storefronts in town: “Spice Thai Restaurant: Coming Soon!” Well, for the love of God. Next thing you know, some Asian or African American family will move to town and it will be completely unnecessary to return to city life. If that happens, I guess I’ll just invite the new family to dinner. Then I’ll serve pheasant.