Don’t think I don’t love you.
Life has been very very full, chickadees. Full of solitude and dear friends, English gardens and Quebecois playgrounds, Pema Chodron and Colette, trucks and trains and buses and planes. A truly terrific little boy, a truly terrific full-time gig, and an existence as a 33-year-old single mom I’ve settled into nicely (not that you’d believe such a thing is possible from American media; hint: watch French films).
At home, in my treehouse, there are lots of things to love: The Scamp’s awesome nursery school; unexpected sweet things (so far, a ring, a butter dish, and a great dress) found at the Brooklyn Flea; Rice’s Thai coconut curry chicken over sticky rice; mint and basil plants from Root, Stock & Quade; Fresh Gardens’ nectarines and grapes; the underappreciated Threading Place; the Pratt Sculpture Park, always; fatoosh salad from Zaytoons; french fries and milkshakes from 67 Burger; interlibrary loans picked up from the Clinton Hill branch. Best of all, and the reason I moved here nearly a decade ago, are long, leafy walks — priceless.