Me? Unable to wrestle an eggplant? Intimidated by that mysterious nightshade? Poppycock!

Tonight I ate some marinated eggplant that I had left to sit all day amongst absurd amounts of olive oil, chopped parsley & basil, capers, dried chile, pungent garlic, and an inspired addition of lightly crushed cumin seed. It was superb, and I piled it atop baguette with ricotta, and also ate it greedily out of the bowl; I sighed and mopped up residual spicy, herb-ridden oil and generally enjoyed it more than I have most things in a long while.

Lunch had also been swell, a sweet and earthy carrot salad and a wedge of humble potato tortilla. The air was cool, and I was happy.

Other things that have made me happy lately: Grace Paley, and daydreaming.

Last but not least is that I recently made it out to Brooklyn and hung out until late into the night with friends. We walked around Park Slope and watched weird clips on YouTube and shared cigarettes. We ate at a Cuban place, and I learned what an empanada was, which I thought I knew, but didn’t— that is what I ordered for my dinner. It was the size of the palm of my hand (note: I have small hands). It was comically small, in fact, and I felt very embarrassed, but it was also a blessed, buttery little envelope stuffed with cod and bits of sweet corn, and there were plaintain chips, and black bean dip, guacamole and tangy pico de gallo; my companions alike were appalled by the postage-stamp size of my order, and piled rice and soupy black beans and meaty grilled mushrooms onto my plate.

Then we talked over a snappy, sweet, cider-like beer and all was very well.