★★★★ The turf in the churchyard and the bare trampled ground were just damp enough to be forgiving underfoot, without being muddy. The children exhausted the easiest eggs, then the more hidden ones, and then began to form designs on the daffodils. Long after every other child had given up and ceded the ground to a gleaming starling and a sparrow, the two-year-old was charging back and forth. Occasionally he stumbled over his basket and got up again. The afternoon temperature felt no warmer than midday, and it was chillier toward the river. The new leaves had a shine to them. On the sidewalk of 70th Street, two full carcasses of lambs turned on motorized spits over beds of charcoal. The pork shoulder at home was coming along slowly, but the light kept lasting and lasting, as the oven temperature notched up to chase the receding dinner hour. Finally, as bright pink streaked the darkening west, the meat was done.
Monday, April 21st, 2014
37 Polly Asks: New York Magazine Wants Me to Write Ask Polly For Them. Should I Tell Them to Piss Off?
Jessica Gross and Merve Emre » The Fall of the Humanities and the Tyranny of Recommendation Letters: A Novel and a Chat