No chill in the air, but the kids are back, the grumpy faces have appeared, and traffic is at a halt. Summer is over and there’s nothing to look forward to say some. Meanwhile I brace for the cold and gaze longingly at the cord of dried wood outside the kitchen window just begging to be set ablaze.
It’s writing weather, suit up, off the bench, 48 minutes to score.
I’ve got nearly eighty pages done of my book about my Ethiopian childhood, time in culinary at the Voc, work in a few NYC restaurants for a decade, and then the dramatic shift, I daresay, to writing about food and the end of a family.
Meanwhile, stovetop the sauces are bubbling and a natural reconciliation is taking place, East to West: Black bean sauces and pork, turkey meatballs poached in a red sauce, chicken parm. It’s border crossing, under cover, and what’s that sound?