At first, there was nothing to do but watch. For days, before the trucks arrived, before the work of clean-up, my brother sat on the stoop and watched.
The great anthropological cookbooks of the 1960s and 1970s have been all but replaced by the fluffy side-projects of TV personalities, further alienating home cooks from their kitchens.
Yesterday evening, I read that poet Jim Carroll passed away this weekend from a heart attack at just sixty years old. I surprised myself by crying for a man I did not even know.
