I had never been to Boston until my son, Leo, started college there. It’s not that I didn’t want to visit – I just didn’t have a good excuse.

Plus, my up-to-date-on-tech-developments-but-not-so-much-on-urban-development husband was there years ago and claimed that it was boring. Nothing to see, do, or eat.

I’ve always wished that my boys, or at least one of them, would go to Harvard – not Emerson College – but after October 7th, I was grateful that they weren’t smart enough to get in. I wouldn’t have even bothered visiting the campus, but my sister had asked me to buy underwear for her, and the only Gap store in Boston is in Harvard Square.

Since I was already there, FOMO and obligation to post a story didn’t allow me to avoid the prestigious campus grounds. Even in the midst of Boston’s Siberian winter, when the trees are shamefully naked and the grass looks like it belongs in a low-income college, I cursed the universe for not having grown up privileged. Those colonial-era red brick buildings are so fucking charming.

The fact that I don’t have an academic degree didn’t stop me from toying with the idea of offering my teaching services to Harvard’s faculty. I know – very ambitious of me – but what future Nobel Prize winners don’t need to know how to make multigrain bread? Good thing imagination is still tuition-free.

Scholar or not, in Boston one must research something. My research topic was “Finding an optimal environment to write my morning pages” – preferably a vibrant café where they make the ultimate matcha latte – hot yet not so hot that it’s bitter – and the most elaborate and delicious avocado toast.

The biggest challenge I had during my exploration was figuring out which direction Google Maps’ arrow points to, while risking getting frostbite and phone battery running out. 22 degrees fucking Fahrenheit, literally hardcore. (“Core” in Hebrew means cold.) You can’t not be grateful for a down jacket, wool socks, and being married to a nerd who forces you to pack a fleece neck gaiter.

I wasn’t as bothered by the negative temperatures as I was by the sun setting at 4pm. Not because it was dangerous walking around in the dark – which it wasn’t (education and crime don’t go together) – it was just oppressive and dreary.

The only danger in Boston is the cost of living. Three more days of $8 oat matcha and $7 decaf oat cortado, and I would’ve needed to take out a student loan. The extra charge for dairy-free milk doesn’t help the sip-tuation. Can we please stop that already?

I was hoping to spend more time with my sweetheart, but the kid got a lead role in a feature film and was on set all day long. He knows who’s escorting him to the Oscars.

I had plenty of time to do nothing, so I visited the monumental Boston Public Library on Boylston Street. For a minute I thought I had entered the Basilica di San Marco, not a public library. You can’t not admire the grand façade and the massive lion sculptures, and yet ask yourself what lions have to do with books. Had I spent more time in the Bates Hall with its barrel-vaulted ceiling, long oak tables and iconic green lamps, and less time in the classic Courtyard tearoom, I might have learned the answer.

Inspired, I took the train to a neighborhood that had nothing special or interesting to offer except for Blick, my favorite art supply chain. I bought a new sketchbook, watercolors, and pens which I ended up using only once during my trip.

I was freezing and unmotivated, so I went to Tatte Bakery, near Emerson, to defrost, hoping that the movie-star-son would have time to join me for a cup of exceptionally good lemon chamomile tea (by Mem) and a slice of perfect carrot cake. I used my new watercolors to paint the divine cake, but it didn’t come out as appealing as the real one.

I wanted to go to the Museum of Fine Arts, but decided it would be more productive to go to Goodwill to look for a desk, table lamp, and some picture frames for Leo’s room. But I didn’t find anything I couldn’t find on Amazon.

On Sunday, my last day, I met up with OC, a friend of a friend who lives outside of Boston. She is also a professional cook and content creator, so we wanted to collaborate. Since it was Hanukkah, we thought of filming a sufganiyot recipe, but after I overdosed on her homemade sourdough boule with butter and jam, eating more carbs seemed like a bad idea. So we made only the wine jelly. I’m Moroccan, and our repertoire is full of bizarre jams – such as baby eggplant, beet, carrot, and raisin – but Merlot jam? I had never even heard of it. It tastes like solid wine, but sweet. Too pretentious for my humble kitchen, but nonetheless exquisite.

I wish I had stayed a semester or two so I could be near Leo, though three days was the perfect amount of time to write, and earn my bachelor’s degree in the art of lattes.

Here is my analysis:

For someone who grew up with five siblings and went to a boarding school, the ultimate place to write is a loud, crowded café with excellent coffee or matcha latte – go to George Howell at the Godfrey Hotel downtown or Daily Provisions Coffee in Harvard Square.

For equally delicious avocado toast, go to Flour Bakery on Clarendon Street or Thinking Cup on Newbury Street, though it’s much cozier at Thinking Cup.

The pho at Phở Pasteur restaurant in Chinatown was pretty phenomenal, but their shrimp Bánh Xèo (Vietnamese crepe) could have been less greasy and more crispy.

If you’re staying at or near the Revolution Hotel in the South End, and craving comforting plant-based food and dessert, go to Life Alive Organic Cafe for their mushroom shawarma and divine chocolate avocado mousse.

Last time we were in Boston, we met some friends at Temple Records, and while I wasn’t crazy about my sake-based cocktail, I did love the Japanese nibbles and intimate, sophisticated atmosphere.

If you live in Boston, then you must go to Belmont to get the proper thick Greek yogurt, feta cheese, and olives at Sophia’s Greek Pantry. My Bostonian friends introduced it to me, and I considered moving there for these delicacies.

Honestly, the only reason I would make this wine jelly is to impress a pretentious person like me or if I have a bottle of red left over.

Recipe adapted from Café Sucre Farine blog.