Wednesday, May 29, 2013

Pimms Cup

Possibly it is better on a hot summer afternoon in England. In my daydreams I'm there, the long interval picnic at Glyndebourne Opera House, bare feet tucked under me, pale blue dress to match the pale blue sky, a lazy conversation, but not much of it. Condensation drips from the cold fruit-filled glass...

But on a rainy spring evening in a Brooklyn apartment, I can happily report, Pimms Cup (virgin for Ella, alcohol for me) is delightful.















Monday, May 27, 2013

Nice

I have a sort of running joke with a friend about "nice." The word sounds almost like an indictment. Nice is caught in the compromise of itself: polite and mildly pleasing. Not exciting, nor confronting. Not spectacular. No feeling of soaring or deep soul satisfaction ever really came from Nice.




My photo today is, I think, Nice. Flower pictures for the most part usually are. Yet I persist in taking them, for they are most often the buttery salty smooth mashed potatoes of photography. Nothing wrong with it. Comfort food.

Nice.

Saturday, May 25, 2013

Diner

The placemats, new but old-new, thin cheap paper and washed-out palette, highly informative. If conversation flags, you can always study the drink recipes.




Forks, occasionally crusted with dried egg. Water, honest NYC kitchen tapwater in food service glasses. Bowls of pickles that taste of bandaid. The waitress who, barely glancing down, proclaims my two-year-old niece "cute" in a voice that says, "I have seen an awful lot of two-year-olds in my 25 years here. They are all the same."

Uncharming, with their strange lighting and listless food on thick chipped plates, diners are the same world without end. I have conducted my business in these places: love affairs over pancakes. Turkey club sandwiches after funerals. Gossip, crying jags, laughter that tipped me sideways out of my seat.

Long may they continue to thrive, in their vinyl-coated, Star-Trek-lighting-fixtured glory!


Thursday, May 23, 2013

Beloved





Is he charming? Or does he make my insides go squinky when I imagine his unblinking HumptyDumpty-ness grinning at me from the underside of the bed? It's a tough call.

My mother's adored doll, 64 years old.