By Jonathan Galassi
The dirty sunlight in the clerestory
windows of our faux-Parisian lair
lends a streaky, half-forgiving glow
to yet another summit with no purpose:
duck and iron Pinot Noir and double
decaf espresso, sheer necessities
for urban inmates who still keep the faith
with a wan cerise velvet banquette
and eye-level mirror lit with faces
a John-the-Baptist puritan might judge
corrupt with too much liquid happiness.
But it is happiness
to lounge in semi-silence while the day
downshifts and natter on about the shit
that passes for Shinola but we know
is only sauce for the gander.
It's not that we’re against the war,
we’re against them: the boobs, the pimps,
the Know-It-Alls, the True Believers—everyone
who isn’t here awash in downtown gold
inhaling the exhaust of Burgundy . . .
Loafing, gloating, having it our way
Friday afternoon at Montrachet.
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From this week's New Yorker.
On Tuesday the kids went back to school (finally!) and I attempted to make a dent in the ten million chores that did not get done last week. I talked for an hour to the woman who's probably going to be our Bar Mitzvah photographer (I haven't actually seen the contract, but I like her a lot), answered a pile of e-mail, worked on a map to enclose with invitations that husband ended up having to modify so he could print and photocopy it, and started to head to the post office for stamps only to realize that until after April 15th, that's a masochistic plan, and turning around. When Adam got home from school, I drove him downtown for the first meeting with the rabbi, who was impressed with his knowledge of his Torah portion and got him started on the essay that will turn into the speech about it.
Three Mount Vernon employees in period costume (though they aren't reenactors -- they don't pretend it's the 18th century) make breakfast Monday by the Potomac River.
When we arrived, they were boiling water...
...to wash out the pan in which they had been cooking eggs, pork and potatoes for "mountain man breakfast."
There were no lambs in the lower farm pens as there were nearer the mansion...
...but there were sheep near the 16-sided barn.
This hen in the henhouse near the slave cabin was quite vocal in warning people not to disturb her egg.
The pigs, however, were unflappable...
...as were the cattle, who spent the entire time we were there chewing their cud.
I am days behind cropping and uploading photos, days behind on laundry, and days behind on reading news that didn't make it onto Twitter or Facebook (meaning anything not about AmazonFail, the Obama dog or actual real life horrible pirates being shot by US snipers, not apparently that that stops anyone reporting from being fascinated with them). I did manage to watch the third episode of The Tudors, which like all the rest was historically silly and highly entertaining; I wasn't sure I'd like the show without Anne Boleyn, but it isn't like Jane will be around long enough for me to get sick of her (oops, is that a spoiler? Titanic sank!) and I'm really enjoying Mary Tudor, which is very unusual! And for the past 10 minutes I have been laughing about the C.O.L.B.E.R.T. until my side aches, so I am off to bed!
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