May 25, 2005



Even though summer is less than three weeks away, 2005 finds me in a decidedly unsummery mood. That's not entirely accurate: It's not that I don't feel summery, it's that I feel seasonless. Maybe this is the result of spending the first half of May in Scotland, or of this week's rotten weather full of cold wind, cold rain, cold, cold, cold. I'm betting, though, that it has much to do with not having visited the farmer's market since the beginning of April. In New York, May means farmer's markets full of rhubarb, herbs, the occasional fiddlehead and masses of the pungent wild leeks known as ramps. Ramp season is great fun: even though it's a blink-and-you-miss-it short season, during that season, they grow like mad. Vendors pile them chin-high, masses of white fringe, bulbs both skinny and full, green tops like inch-thick blades of grass. The scent of these beauties, in quantity, is a dizzying thing; it's impossible for me to smell them without wanting to go home immediately and fill a frittata full of them. A nice potato and ramp frittata, followed by a little dish of fresh ricotta topped with rhubarb compote, should get me feeling seasonal in no time.

Until that time, I will have to keep myself warm with thoughts of how beautifully, how grandly and happily Lloyd and I ate in Scotland.  The bad news is that I am up well past my bedtime.  The good news is that I'm slowly getting my pre-vacation, pre-burnout groove back, and I will be in a sharing mood.  I promise.

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May 22, 2005


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May 19, 2005


You are right, dear friends:  I have fallen down in the Scotland travelogue department, as well as the guest-blogging at the lovely bunni's house department.  All is well, more or less, but the return to New York, the box factory and a life more ordinary has proven to be interesting, in the sense of that famous old Chinese blessing "May you never live in interesting times."  I have been floating through it all on a cloud of giant Cadbury bars, packets of Minstrels and steaming hot baths scented with Lush Blackberry bath bombs, where I immerse myself in fizzy purple bathwater and read the dozen or so brilliant books I brought home with me from the Green and Pleasant Land.

Eventually I will be done with the Hedonism ExpoFestO'Rama, and will be ready for some proper sharing.  First, though, Lloyd and I are headed down to Philadelphia to catch the Salvador Dali exhibit at the Museum of Art.  If a little surrealism doesn't do the trick for whapping me into shape, I don't know what will.  Bring forth the lobster phones and bread chandeliers.

Note:  Those dear friends who live in that Green and Pleasant Land will recognize the title of this post.  For those of you on this side of the great divide, one of the brilliant books I bought was this brilliant novel, written by my own Personal Jesus of Cool, Meera SyalLife Isn't All Ha Ha Hee Hee has been made into a three-part BBC series, and I should count my blessings that we got to see Part One last week, rather than mewl and puke about how we won't see Parts Two or Three unless BBC America decides to do the right thing by it.  In the meantime, if you have BBC America on your cable system, you can watch The Kumars at No. 42, where Meera steals the show so reliably that you could set a clock by her.

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May 16, 2005







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My heart was broken, my heart was broken
sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow
My heart was broken, my heart was broken
You saw it, you claimed it,
you touched it, you saved it
My tears are drying, my tears are drying
Thankyou thankyou thankyou thankyou
My tears are drying, my tears are drying
Your beauty and kindness
made tears clear my blindness
While I'm worth my room on this earth
I will be with you
While the Chief puts sunshine on Leith
I'll thank him for his work
And your birth and my birth

              -- The Proclaimers, Sunshine on Leith

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