We counted 36 umbrellas over the weekend, Ferdinand and I.  They were caught under parked cars, stuck in the garbage, stuffed in trash cans, or just lying wounded on the sidewalk.  “What a moment,” I said, “to walk out into the wet and the cold, thinking yourself protected by a nylon crescent on a stick and instead your whole front line gets blown inside out and twisted and you become so disillusioned with what you thought you had that you leave it all behind.”
I have never trusted umbrellas. Or eggs that come from a farm of chickens living in slightly worse conditions than business men who rent coffin shaped cubicles, at the Big Lemon Hotel in the red light district of Tokyo.  I read this morning that housewives are looking to anchor themselves by raising their own egg laying hens. It’s tempting, and every time I read something about women in cities raising chickens, I think, “I should be raising chickens.”  I have a backyard, I live in NYC. Except I gave up being a housewife (for money and because it’s one thing to truly enjoy the company of a chicken but another all together to think that any earth closeness raising a chicken might bring you, is going to save you from the malaise of being a housewife.)   I lived on a farm with a brand new baby, chickens, cows, pigs, rabbits, turkeys, no phone and a mule and trust me–if you are meant to work, there is nothing a chicken can do unless you start a business selling her eggs (or writing about them.)

On that note, I believe in a good solid, cardboard packaged organic egg.  I made little omelets last night with tender spears of braised asparagus and tiny spoonfuls of sheep’s milk ricotta.  We had them with roasted potatoes from someone else’s garden and tiny peas flavored with pancetta.