Freezing this morning. Somewhere in the county a food writer whose memoir about her mother I'm now reading had oats for breakfast with brown sugar and cream. I had mine with stewed plums, from Eger Brothers, frozen late summer in anticipation of just such a morning. I have always loved her writing and relate to her story. I too feel pretty when I'm loved! By you, or - nowadays, maybe - by me. "You'll see," she said, "once you find out who you are you will find your beauty. You have to grow into your face. But I promise you this: you will."Wrestling with whether or not I'm a narcissist, that is, reading things all too personally as relating directly to me. What evidence do I have? I would say that it might have been the clean token dishes left in witty abandon in the sink, which I washed by hand and placed on the other side of the equation.
What made me think it was J? So many things in that kingdom by the sea, and the streetful of galleries abounding with images of our story. But it's hard to prove, if someone else had been reading our mail.
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