So I’ve started reading an astonishing novel, quite brilliant, called HhHH: Himmler’s Hirn heisst Heydrich (Himmler’s brain is called Heydrich).
It’s written by Laurent Binet, the original is in French, and it’s a Geoff Dyer-like disquisition on the murder of Heydrich.  The author
enters, leaves, returns again.  It’s a fascinating model for what it turns out I’m doing: Not exactly a memoir, it turns out,
but a meditation on family.  I cannot accept Binet’s model as mine because I have no interest in creating that kind
of narrative, but I absolutely am mesmerized by his writing.  It’s going to be a classic…

I told my aunt I was reading it and she laughed bitterly and said, “You’re a glutton for punishment.”

Which leads to tonight’s menu.

Will it be the Sicilian method of swordfish I discovered at Esca?

Or pea soup with chicken and apple sausages?

These are the kinds of questions that wake me in the middle of the night, tossing and turning, as the black dog howls at those gathering cans and bottles for redemption.

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