72 Hours of Madcap Fun in Bustling Cambridge, Massachusetts

It’s not that I’ve been away the past few days.  No, I was caught up in the wash and then the rinse cycles followed by a stint in the dryer.  I lost a sock, I found a sock, the days get shorter, and life goes by, to paraphrase Ezra, like a mouse rustling through the tall grass.

I’m on the final edits of the book on chefs.

The script for the wine movie.

A draft of a chapter for a book on Non Resident Indians.

Page by page, paragraph by paragraph, line by line, word by word of the book on race in the 1930s.

And on top of all that, it’s a huge weekend for white people here in Cambridge, MA: The Head of the Charles!  Blonds, women passing for blond, women trying to pass for blond.  SUVs with out of state plates driven by buff guys wearing colorful cotton sweaters with pink or orange caps, strutting like bantams, and sweet in the way that people with money are sweet.  You know: Polite, har har har, and so out of sync with their surroundings, in the way they moved, that it was as if nature ought to change rather than them.

Meanwhile, in the world of food:

Bittman calls for farming without chemicals and increased yields by rotation of crops.  Why, my goodness, why didn’t farmers think of that?

 

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