Between sheets of paper from my new book, “Those Immigrants!,” out this week, I’m simply reading a great deal and trying as best I can to avoid distractions. So far, so good.
Finished Volume 5 of, “My Struggle,” by Knausgaard, which was an astonishment for a writer. Encouraging, depressing, high and low, tragic and extremely painful to read. In the work he suggests, I think, the work of Emmanuel Bove, and I read his wonderful and fascinating stories on Sunday, then started, “Pan,” by Knut Hamsun, also recommended by Knausgaard. Books where internal dialogue and authorial pain temper overtly the observations.
And, of course, it’s morel season. One local store, Russo’s, has them at $29 a pound. That’s far better than the snooty cold cuts and cheese shop for the rich where they are sold at about $60. Same mushrooms at twice the price, but I suppose the exclusivity of shopping there adds frisson.
Morels are delightful in a risotto, baked in little phyllo cups you can buy at the supermarket, in a vegetable soup, tossed with linguine, and in a light sauce with chicken.