Tuesday, August 17, 2010
In Midnight's Children, Salman Rushdie writes of a woman whose life's bitterness seeps into the food she makes. Today's focaccia was dry, dry, dry. Was it because I've poured myself, every last bit, into this wretched master's thesis of mine (final draft still pending) and hadn't the moisture to spare, or just because I kneaded too much flour into the dough yesterday? Oh magic realism, so much more inviting than your philosophical cousin.