156, 157

Monday I got the zines printed and collated and folded and stapled and stuffed into envelopes, then licked and stamped and off to the mail where they will fan out across the nation and bring ambiguous and uncertain feelings to everyone they touch.  This one is, well, I don’t know.  It’s, as I might say about any other piece of writing, “Problematic.”  It’s a mess, but it does what it is supposed to do.  I’m happy with it.  I’m happy that it’s continued to be something engaging and meaningful to people.

Then for dinner last night I made a duck breast, and we had some fresh mozzarella made by our friends at Lea restaurant on Cortelyou, who have started a Sunday market in their courtyard area–we also got some hearty seeded bread that has been good with a huge slather of butter and some of Beth’s jam.  Then I did a purple barley salad with lovage, walnuts, cranberries, and the first shelling peas of the season from Tim at Eckerton Hill.

Today, which was Tuesday, I boxed a shit ton of maple syrup and sent it off via FedEx to March, a specialty grocery store in San Francisco on Sacramento Street.  So, soon, if you live there, or nearby, you can get Deep Mtn Maple in 12oz bottles for whatever they are charging, I don’t know.  As long as they all make it there.  Glass and such.  Heavy boxes.  I will look at the FedEx tracking record about 5 times a day, I’m sure.

This evening I met my friend Cyan, a wise young writer with a tremendous talent, at Kettle of Fish on Christopher.  I hope he writes a shit ton this summer and sends it to me right away.

And now, on television, right now, as I type this, Hillary becomes the first woman ever nominated by a major party in American politics.  She is in all white and she is beaming, and I am in tears.  Our girls have grown up knowing only Barack Obama as president, and the next thing they’ll know is that a woman can run for president, and probably she can win.  None of that is lost on me.

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