On Friday night, I went to dinner at a little Italian restaurant in the West Village. It’s an old favorite, just a few blocks from a cozy apartment where I used to live. The restaurant is warm and inviting, with worn wood floors and a long mirrored bar. It’s lit with vintage-y lightbulbs that glow amber above the tables.

The menu is filled with the sort of food I imagine real Italians eat. Somewhere in Naples, in a quiet cool kitchen, someone’s nonna is setting out simple dishes like thinly sliced rib-eye, served cold, over lemony arugula and shaved Brussel sprouts studded with salty bits of Castelrosso cheese.

I woke up early this morning. I took a run in the park, breathing in gulps of cold fresh air. Sweating it out feels extra good in winter weather; leaving the warm cocoon of my bed for a bracing chill is like conquering a battle.

Then there’s a hot shower waiting. Comfortable clothes – fleeced pants and a soft, oversized sweater – and a walk to get a big milky latte. I pick up some groceries. Back in my kitchen, I fire off a few work emails, feeling sharp and witty and organized.