Small (and not so small) favors

I'm this close, this close, to falling back in love with my neighborhood.

It's largely thanks to this guy . . .

and this guy on the right . . .

and this ravioli . . .

It's a long story, but that first guy--our good friend Thuan--staked out our corner at 5am last Tuesday to confront the horn honker (the driver who's been blaring her SUV horn before dawn every morning, including Saturdays, since August). Thuan got photos and a license plate number and even tried gently to talk with her, but in a repeat of what John and I got when we attempted the same, she rebuffed him through a closed window and drove off, horn blazing. Thuan lives several blocks away and doesn't ever hear the disruption: he just insisted on doing this out of the goodness of his heart. When I'm on my death bed hopefully decades from now, and someone asks me the kindest thing anyone ever did for me, this act will rank in the top three, guaranteed.

In a perfect stroke of kismet, that second guy you see above--whom you may recognize from an earlier post as my favorite member of the CPD--paid a visit the very same day to the house in question, where the tenant was being picked up every morning. Lo and behold, no car horn in the last ten days, and my insomnia seems to be subsiding.

Of course nothing gold can stay, Pony Boy, and we don't expect we're fully out of the woods yet. But if not, I'll retreat into the starchy euphoria of the homemade pasta now available from our local Mexican supermarket, also pictured above. We bought artichoke ravioli, wild-mushroom ravioli, and spinach tortellini, but those are only three of the dozen or so varieties they carry (including, wait for it . . . lobster. Oh yeah).

I know not to count on ravioli of any stripe as a permanent fixture. Things come and go at the Tony's Certisaver. Couscous and block parmesan have been fairly stable offerings. Recycled toilet paper and fresh baguettes, not so much.

For now, though, we have a freezer full of gourmet pasta. And some guarded hope.