It is Sunday 15 November, a guaranteed breakfast day. I've been waiting for this. I purchased a package of top shelf, no nitrate, uncured bacon. I walked 3 miles for a loaf of Hominy bread from Tall Grass Bakery and saved the 6 eggs Mylinda gave me from her chicken, Henrietta. I purchased organic mushrooms at Green Market and goat cheese at Ballard Market. Scott is making me breakfast, a full breakfast, and I am thankful.
During the decadent times, I think about my brother, about how and where and what he eats. I don't know. I guess he eats out, with friends and colleagues and women. How often does he eat alone? How often does he cook at home? Where does his food come from? Can he get produce from local farmers? I don't know any of this. In recent years we haven't seen each other. Two days in four years, this April. We ate out every night. My mother was packing up her life. We were helping.
We were all becoming homeless at the same time, in the Spring of 2015. My mother's apartment building was being renovated and she was being out-priced. My brother was coming home from Hong Kong and looking for work. I'd given up my boat and office to help my mother (which in hindsight I did not and could not do). Here it is November. My mother's in a condo in PA, purchased by my brother. My brother is in a condo with our father's brother's ex-wife (my aunt) on the Lower East Side. And I am living no where, moving about, place to place, house-sitting. I'm not called yet to correct this and I don't know why. Am I preparing for something? A departure? A move? A shift? When will I receive those orders? When?
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