Weltschmertz, welshrats

Nights are bright, as June slides beneath our feet, the summer snake that makes us forget the long black afternoons and sunless mornings. Celebrations at the new, long table are within the backyard bowl where we sometimes feel like goldfish, pursing our lips and blowing bubbles at the windows that watch and listen. That aspect of our tiny garret, upstream on Henry Street, I miss. Just being invisible. A private sky.

We watch, too. We have found two cats in the windows. No one pets them.  We see where the squirrels live behind the gutter, high above a house. We wait for Beeskwee to come out and stare at us through the fence. We follow planes and choppers, and the robin and the cardinal who take it in turns to carol from the highest fire escape. We hear the hoarse beagle barking breathlessly. We hear the rusty voice yelling at it.

The garden is oppressively green.

But, snapping out of it, the log above? The log is a chicken liver mousse, baked at low heat in a bain marie - with a sweetfern bourbon infusion. It is rich, and we ate one end of it; the middle section was sent to friends nearby for a birthday snack. They like such things. The relish was caramelized onions from the Borough Hall Greenmarket, cooked with autumn olive flower vinegar. Salad leaves from the garden.

Champagne because the Frenchman deserved it. And I don't mind helping.