A morning in the woods of Prospect Park. Pretty from far.
Pretty even from up close.
Not too much has changed, though. We filled the usual bags with the usual stuff. Pulled up compacted paths and put up fences.
After visiting the Brooklyn Botanic Garden across the road (check back for the crocus post, tomorrow), and fleeing the cafeteria - and my dreams of a bowl of chile - because it was overflowing with strollers and their occupants, I headed stoicly right back across the park and down into Park Slope, to Al di la. A small, private treat.
I feel self conscious eating alone, but I also enjoy it. With no conversation to remove your gaze from the plate, every morsel is considered. A white salad of rutabaga, celeriac, turnip (I think), Jerusalem artichoke and fennel. And then a plate of cavatelli with greens and some hot pepper, lots of lemon zest and creamy cheese. It was wonderful. A glass of Verdicchio. A book about soil conditioning for inbetween courses. Many other tables were people also eating on their own. The man beside me with a Hemingway moustache.
And the chile I could not eat at lunch is now simmering on the stove. Beef, beans, carrots and celery, additions of tomato jam, vinegar, cinnamon and coffee. Dough is rising, for small rolls hot from the oven. I am bone tired. And look forward to soft, cool sheets and bed.