I have been reading Isak Dinesen's stories for two or three days, marveling as always at how beautifully they are written, at how rich they are – like everyone I wish there were more of course, but they probably wouldn't be so layered and subtle if she had written them much faster.
This afternoon I left the house to do one of the periodic presentations by HIV patients to medical students; afterwards I convinced Bob to walk with me to the nearby market, which has wonderful Asian fruit and vegetables, many of which I don't even know how to cook. I bought four of a strange green fruit, like apples, that soften to a rich white flesh – I can't remember the Indian name – they're in a bowl in the kitchen; I'd forgotten how rich, strong and complex their smell is, sweet and tart in a strange way.
Late tonight, the last story I read before bed was the famous, and very beautiful, 'Babette's Feast', about the worldly and the sacred, and the beauty of art, and of food... so it is appropriate that, across the darkened apartment, from the kitchen through the middle room and hallway, past the windows open to the spring night air, the perfume of the fruit comes to me while I'm lying in bed....
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