I believe I have mastered the art of disappearing, sitting in a crowded room seeing no one, forgetting that I am visible. Reading a book with my mouth full of cucumbers and tomatoes, I gaze out at an empty kitchen — A tin of anchovies on the counter and one zested lemon. I am on Willoughby Ave but I could be anywhere. Bob Dylan is singing, and dried flowers hang from the ceiling above the bar. There is a lesson here, about preservation. Simplicity, too. Burrata with fig. Salt and pepper. Beans, poured from a quart container. Sprinkled with herbs, drizzled with olive oil. Bread in a bowl with butter.
Comments
No posts