Monday morning, new week, overcast and rain on the way, as a few days away it’s April. I’ve never felt April was cruel at all, let alone most cruel, I think that has more to do with Eliot than the season, but that’s just me.
Morels I ordered which arrived on Friday are half gone. They’ve appeared in broths, on toast, with white asparagus, with poussin, and with rice. Nothing tastes better.
Meanwhile my work on Japanese whiskies appeared on Friday in KarryOn, which is out of Australia, and edits are made on my book about India, which is out in May. OK, it’s not fungus, but so what?
Otherwise, it’s Donald Keene, Soseki, and Tanizaki. And I’d better hurry, up, too: The 5th volume of Knausgaard arrives in mid-April. Not cruel. Not cruel at all.
