I’m at least a little bit crunchy. You know, crunchy. Hippie. Granola. And although I could tell you the difference between kombu and kombucha, voted Green Party for governor, and have an enduring soft spot for Birkenstocks, I never really thought of myself or the life we lead here as crunchy per se until I walked into our furnace closet the other day and found myself confronted with irrefutable evidence.
Let me show you how crunchiness manifests itself even in the smallest and most utilitarian room in the house:
Other than the novelty on/off switch, what have we here?
Two different kinds of bread rising on top of the furnace since it’s the warmest place in the house.
A stash of spare secondhand macrame.
Sun tea jug (one of several).
And not only is that a gallon growler full of country wine, but I’m wearing wool socks.
I rest my case.