Dear Piers,
° The other day was one of those ripe ones that will sometimes fall off the tree into one's lap.
° 1. I didn't get lost. I mean, while searching for a new local foods store in West Overton.
° 2. Not only that, I found a full dozen heirloom varieties of tomato plants, I'll feast this summer till I break out in hives.
° 3. Moreover, there was a stand of the juiciest primrose yellow oleanders, that I hadn't even been looking for.
° 4. Steamed with Steel and another very newsy guy. After Steel left, it turned out that the newsy guy speaks, but does not understand, plain English, to wit, "No, grazie."
° 5. Pizza with Steel and daughter. Candied ginger for the sourmilk gingerbread. Hari, in tiedyed t, spitcleaning the tables.
° 6. Il Trittico, live from the Met. So, the flashlight they used to use at the end of Suor Angelica (in the days before religion was stylish) finally ran out of batteries. Poor Rinuccio, poor contestants, reality tv comes to Lincoln Center.
° 7. A quick espresso and lo, there it was, rosemary flatbread. (A food critic had recently praised Pink Pony's antipasto starring fig jam, arugula, and goat cheese on rosemary flatbread.) It proved to be such foul tasting glop I'm afraid to throw it on the compost heap, might drive away the field mice, and then the kits would have nothing but moles to torment.
° 8. La Tourneuse de Pages. Loved every moment of it. Nothing wrong with it that Jeanne Moreau, a just balance between the crime and the punishment thereof, and a sort of loony irreality about the savagery couldn't've cured.
° 9. And then, just on the way to the Sri Lankan Mexican Bakery, whom dost thou think I beheld? Xak, that's who whom whose I beheld. So a ripe night was had by all.
° The other day was one of those ripe ones that will sometimes fall off the tree into one's lap.
° 1. I didn't get lost. I mean, while searching for a new local foods store in West Overton.
° 2. Not only that, I found a full dozen heirloom varieties of tomato plants, I'll feast this summer till I break out in hives.
° 3. Moreover, there was a stand of the juiciest primrose yellow oleanders, that I hadn't even been looking for.
° 4. Steamed with Steel and another very newsy guy. After Steel left, it turned out that the newsy guy speaks, but does not understand, plain English, to wit, "No, grazie."
° 5. Pizza with Steel and daughter. Candied ginger for the sourmilk gingerbread. Hari, in tiedyed t, spitcleaning the tables.
° 6. Il Trittico, live from the Met. So, the flashlight they used to use at the end of Suor Angelica (in the days before religion was stylish) finally ran out of batteries. Poor Rinuccio, poor contestants, reality tv comes to Lincoln Center.
° 7. A quick espresso and lo, there it was, rosemary flatbread. (A food critic had recently praised Pink Pony's antipasto starring fig jam, arugula, and goat cheese on rosemary flatbread.) It proved to be such foul tasting glop I'm afraid to throw it on the compost heap, might drive away the field mice, and then the kits would have nothing but moles to torment.
° 8. La Tourneuse de Pages. Loved every moment of it. Nothing wrong with it that Jeanne Moreau, a just balance between the crime and the punishment thereof, and a sort of loony irreality about the savagery couldn't've cured.
° 9. And then, just on the way to the Sri Lankan Mexican Bakery, whom dost thou think I beheld? Xak, that's who whom whose I beheld. So a ripe night was had by all.
° Sucked dry yet still somehow ripely juicy, Giac.
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