An interesting early week, in the (attributed) Chinese sense.
So, as a prophylactic against more interestingness, supper is going to be one that I threaten to have more often than we do: a bottle of Backsberg shiraz, from the home country, bought at the Brooklyn Wine Exchange, which has one very tiny shelf, about six bottles wide, dedicated to South Africa. But it's better than nothing. Two cheeses, a triple cream brie, and a cave-aged Gruyere. Sweet butter. Still-warm baguette from Sahadi's. Mr Sahadi himself packed my bag and I wondered to myself what he eats at home and whether he might let me in to see and write about it. So that is supper: wine, bread, cheese. Honey crisp apples for after.
At home I debriefed the cat - he always needs debriefing, read more about raccoons online and poured myself a drink. Vermouth and cassis, with a slice of lemon and two ice cubes, if you're dying with curiosity. I watered the roof farm and collected leaves for a mustardy salad with our white bread and cheese supper, and forgot to water the terrace. A red sunset was obscured up there by a bank of cloud coming in over Jersey and a bird of prey flapped past overhead. From the apartment the warm light of the darkening fall season lit up the interior and I could see the black cat staring up at my footsteps. Planes made their final approach to La Guardia, a child cried on the sidewalk, something heavy thumped on a faraway street. I muttered at the new squirrel holes in my troughs. I have not protected them, yet.
Perhaps I should bake the Honey Crisp apples, and stuff them with cinnamon and raisins. We'll eat one raw and then one each, baked. And then I'll watch the end of Breaking Bad, my current Netflix obsession. And on that note, some music from the same:
And then it will be Wednesday.