Sure, we’re living the high life here, catching bad Bollywood movies at a skeevy theater in Jackson Heights. Going to the Bronx Zoo. Playing Skee-Ball in the ever-shrinking arcades of Coney Island. But what is a typical weeknight like in our non-stop go-go new life?

Around 5:30 I shut my laptop after spending a few hours getting nowhere with some configuration files I have to rewrite in order to make my team’s stuff integrate with the Flagship Product. I took out an old mixing bowl and threw in some boneless chicken breasts, poured some soy sauce over them, added some garlic, then changed my mind about what I wanted to do and added some yogurt, some ginger paste (a fine invention available at your local Indo-Pak market), cumin, coriander and tumeric. I heated up a skillet, put in some oil and a pat of butter and started cooking some of the chicken.

I did some dishes, turned the chicken, did more dishes. I was on the second batch when Lenore got home from work. She split open a spaghetti squash, drizzled some oil, sprinkled some herbs, and put it in the oven.

The chicken was ready long before the squash was. In the end, it was tasty and wholesome. I put the rest of the considerable amount of chicken in the refrigerator.

The other day, Lenore had found the charger for the digital camera battery. She offloaded the photos that had been on it, most going back to just before the move. I sent some e-mail. Distant thunder rumbled. The wind-up monkey in the window clattered, wobbling in the wind.

Around 9:30, the apartment was still warm from the day’s near-90-degree heat and the cooking, despite eight or nine open windows and a breeze. We put on shoes, grabbed our keys, went for a walk along Broadway (not that Broadway, the Queens one), past shuttered 99-cent stores, hookah smokers outside the Moroccan cafe, darkened butcher shops and bakeries, past the strange bookstore, past the crazy nativist radiator-cabinet-maker’s shop with windows plastered with screeds against immigrants that must be great for business around here. Past shoe stores and Irish pubs and drugstores and newsstands and Croatian bars and the nightclub that smells like a urinal cake. After twenty-odd blocks the commercial strip petered out at the corner of Crrescent Street. We were standing by a taqueria we’d never given much thought to before. The front windows were open to a walk-up counter. A sign in Spanish bragged that their taquero, a gentleman named Alberto, was the best taquero in New York, and furthermore, that he is 100% Pueblan.

We looked over the list of meats on the takeout menu and at the wide steel pot on the grill filled with pig parts and fat sausages swimming in gravy and grease, a garland of grilled whole green onions laid on top. In accordance with my Unofficial Taqueria Rule when not acutally hungry but confronted by an unexplored taqueria some distance from home, we shared one involving the least-common meat on the list, in this case oreja. “You want ear?” asked the counterwoman.

We better understood why you can’t make a silk purse from a sow’s ear. For one thing, ear meat is thick, rubbery and cartilaginous, not much like silk at all. It also leaves a sticky residue on your fingers, what with that layer of cartilage and all. The meat, when combined with the nice chipotle-spiked salsa, tasted a bit like a hot dog, probably the sum of the pork, cartilage and smoke things going on. It’s not my favorite taco filling, but it’s not my least-favorite, either.

The wind kicked up. The moon was haloed by an orange haze. The city had issued a smog and ozone warning today. We crossed the street and walked back home, past the Japanese convenience store, past the grand old catering hall being gutted to make way for another megagym, past banks and hair salons and cafes. The apartment had cooled down some. The cat wanted to be fed.