The Fever One day there was an anonymous present sitting on my doorstep — Volume One of Capital by Karl Marx, in a brown paper bag. A joke? Serious? And who had sent it? I never found out. Late that night, naked in bed, I leafed through it. The beginning […]
You can’t make an omelette without chopping a few mushrooms
On a sunny Sunday morning The world outside my kitchen window not yet stirring But for songbirds singing And the rustle of leaves in the breeze Chop chop chopping mushrooms The sharp chef’s blade falling falling falling On the cutting board, slices of mushroom brushed aside Readied for sizzling butter […]