It’s down to about 120 hours, and then it’s Fall, and this past week it’s been naturally intoxicating with spells of intense heat in the afternoon and parallelograms of light. I’ve been holed up writing about Japanese whiskies for Whisky Advocate and Tokyo eyeglasses for Travel + Leisure. All the while trying to open–just to open–the file of a book that is crying out for plot.
To while away the hours, I’m reading the enjoyable, “we don’t know what we’re doing,” a collection of stories by Thomas Morris, of Wales now residing in Dublin. When you cannot write with fluency and alacrity, it’s best to read. Uh oh: I’m reading three books a week.
Between being stumped by the unopened file, and feeling that many modern stories I’m reading place the narrator in so precarious a position as to obscure those being invented and observed, I’m cooking nightly, as usual.
Grilled chicken apple sausages, grilled swordfish, turkey meatballs. Sort of a diner with good ingredients.
And looking forward to: Giulia, Rotisserie Georgette, Betony, Batard, Fung Tu, Rubirosa, and Esca.