Fruit of the Day

It was a warmer August day. The grass browning, the crickets loud when traffic died away. We went to the North Market and found it mostly empty: it is a wonderful place when its empty. Stuff white people like, but without the crowds of white people, when it’s empty. Barrels of pickles, cheeses, coffee, waffles if you like that thing, bowls of soup, smoked meat, fresh meat, fish and flowers, spirits and kitchen supplies. The poles got me again: leek salad. A leek salad which adumbrated the children of Israel’s desire to return to bondage, provided they got leeks again.

I’m resting from my labors till school starts next week, as August pauses and the summer pauses before the rest of the year begins. Heroic, I’ll sprawl over the end of this week, dawdling over my Friday off, if by the end of tomorrow evening I don’t feel like the thing to do would just be Latin (I like it, as long as I don’t make it become onerous by undertaking it too ambitiously). I am under the impression at the moment (an impression I do not believe will last much beyond my first week) that I will be a genial and accomplished teacher of Latin, and I’m not arguing with myself about it but enjoying it here, with the sound of the crickets of August and the memory of the polish leek salad of this morning.


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