It’s Writing Weather

It’s writing weather, and you know what that means.  Having been a duck in a past life, it means rain and overcast skies, thoughts of Miles and solos by Bill Evans and Coltrane.  It means thinking about buying the new book by Pankaj Mishra who, like me, has written in the duckiest of places: Mashobra.  Talk about rain. Talk about buckets of rain and tall pines with monkeys on boughs, a screaming monkey man who tries to chase away the simians, long stretches of overgrown apple orchards planted by Scots, and commanding views of the Himalayas.

But I get ahead of myself.

Yesterday, it was NYC.  Caught in a downpour, without an umbrella, and in a hurry to reach MG for lunch @ Lupa, a mere two blocks away, I arrived soaked to the skin.  And me, the thing without feathers.

Lupa is predictable, which is obviously a plus and a minus.  Delicious sweetbreads with shishito peppers followed by bucatini amatriciana.  Not exactly Roman in ingredients (shishito), but tasty all the same.

Earlier, pre-Carmellini, I stopped at Murray’s: Four cheese ravioli for dinner.  Now why would I carry food back to Boston?  That, my friends, is a taboo subject.



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