Better to write for yourself and have no public, than to write for the public and have no self. - Cyril Connolly
Sunday, September 14, 2008
A cloud in an otherwise beautiful day.
I got up at the crack of dawn this morning and headed to the Farmer's Market with some friends where I scored beautiful zuchini and the most perfect pint of raspberries ever grown. I also treated myself to a bag of fresh chanterelle mushrooms and a fresh rabbit, along with some of that incredible smoked salmon pate' and freshly made mozarella from the Belvedere Market. I grabbed some fresh flowers and some good breakfast sausage from the Pig Boys and headed home to make brunch for the neighbors.
So....at 10:00, the neighbors all came over for brunch in the garden. I had thrown together a crab, cheese, and red pepper strata last night which I simply had to toss in the oven to get puffy and golden, along with the fresh sausage and some tomatoes from my garden that I simply broiled with some basil butter and parmesan cheese. Wash everything down with a spicy Bloody Mary and lots of coffee, and so far Sunday morning is about as perfect as they come.
I figure I'll do some laundry, take a nap, and then at 5:00, our neighborhood is hosting its annual end of summer picnic in the commons across the way. That would make it a perfect Sunday all the way around in my book.
That was, until I sat down to check email and read the NYT after I cleaned up the brunch dishes and discovered that not only had one of my favorite authors died, but that he hanged himself at the age of 46. David Foster Wallace.
As I'm sitting here, on a beautiful Indian summer day having enjoyed some good food with good friends, it seems so hard to believe that such a brilliant and gifted person could have been suffering so much that they lost the will to live.
