It’s Thursday morning, my kind of day, overcast, gray, the threat of rain. I’m coming along with my book, and am up to being sent to the Voc, summers spent cooking at a German-American place, and am soon to describe a decade behind the stove at three NY restaurants. The experience of being black is part of the narrative, and slowly the narrator establishes a reliable voice that leads to the work’s second section about the death of a family.
Meanwhile, as ballast, it’s been gazpacho nightly, with sides of raw baby onions, raw radishes, roasted baby peppers, and microwaved corn. The proteins have varied: Grilled chicken sausages, eggplant parmigiano, fried tofu, tuna meatballs in tomato sauce.
The combination of recalling life in the kitchen and the now of life in the kitchen and the threat of rain create a spell.