Forgot to mention this: both strawberries and rhubarb were to be had at CSA distribution yesterday. I had some other stalks of the humble vegetable with the poisonous leaves in the fridge, so I added to the new and the berries, sprinkled a quarter cup or so of sugar on top and baked sans my usual borough-famous cobbler topping: the apartment is perfumed with the smell, a mouth-watering mostly strawberry smell. Ah, bliss it is. Better even than the linden tree I stood under on Henry St. tonight as I sucked in the blossoms. All this after getting my Trees New York tree pruner cap tonight in the Arsenal. Yes, I am now an official NYC Ent.
It all got me over hearing, for the second time, on yet another public radio show, the singer from Pink Martini tell the story about how Eugene, that bad, bad boy, didn’t call her ten years ago. Now, I know the memory is supposed to fail with age, but I’m pretty sure phones had two ends back in those days, too.