Such a relief, to burst from the theatre
into our cool, imaginary streets
where we know who’s who and what’s what,
and command with Metrocards our destinations.
Where no one with a story struggling in him
convulses as it eats its way out,
and no one in an antiseptic corridor,
or in deserts or in downtown darkling plains,
staggers through an Act that just will not end,
eyes burning with the burning of the dead.
by James Richardson at Mark Doty
by Beth Nelson at by land by air by sea
The Big Lie will be heard again-
and if it is heard long enough- like all lies-
it gathers believers.
by Patricia Gaye Tapp at Little Augury
by Ivan Terestchenko at Ivan Terestchenko
by Anonymous at Tassos
I had lately been fascinated by the deconstructed, dehydrated Eggs Benedict at the newest temple of molecular gastronomy. And had even been thinking that I wanted to learn how to copy the sous-vide seventeen-hour egg at the trendiest restaurant downtown where you will never get a reservation. But this story of the seventy-five-year-old man, cracking an egg slowly and accurately with two hands and using his thumbs to get the thirteenth egg as his mother had done during wartime food shortages, put me right back on track.
by the best gastronomic memoiriste
since the discovery of Amanda Hesser;
to be presented soon at this page