Wednesday, August 10, 2011

under the table

There was a boy who had grown to be a man, never leaving the nursery except for his brisk twice daily strolls around the gardens, still eating only egg puddings. He had received the schooling to be a great pilot, but his first and only appearance at the adults' table had been so dire to not only send him away for life, but to even exile his parents from social dinners for over six months. She thought it had been the soup that was his failing, being raised to see through the clear skies and faltering at the turbulent depths of the soup tureen, but she wasn't really certain what had transpired next.
A place of my own : the education of an amateur builder / Michael Pollan

one day the humidity will drop and the laundry will dry