October 4, 2001
An invitation to a book party. The author, a friend unseen for years from college who resides in Ireland, has written a children’s book being published in the US. When I first lived here, in a self-made Irish ghetto on Flatbush Avenue Extension, she came to stay in what we referred to as nightmare dormitory. Whether it was a long standing thing or something that developed in the close quarters of the walk through apartment I don’t know, but she developed a passion for one of the permanent occupants, another friend from college. She would get up very early, before the staggered stagger to the bathroom, and boil potatoes. The potatoes were intended for the loved one’s breakfast. They would sit dry and floury in a pot waiting for him to arise and for her to fry them to perfection. Her attentions, particularly the potato boiling, irritated him. Living six to an apartment, boiling potatoes, drinking whisky. It would be a play to avoid on, even off, Broadway. Somebody I had developed a similarly misguided crush on once made a remark about the potato boiling authoress. It must have been spring or summer as she wore a series of slightly anachronistic cotton dresses that all featured a cut out triangle on the upper part of her back. He asked, “Where does she keep all of the triangles?” It endeared him to me even further. These things and her good skin came to mind when the invitation arrived.
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An invitation to a book party. The author, a friend unseen for years from college who resides in Ireland, has written a children’s book being published in the US. When I first lived here, in a self-made Irish ghetto on Flatbush Avenue Extension, she came to stay in what we referred to as nightmare dormitory. Whether it was a long standing thing or something that developed in the close quarters of the walk through apartment I don’t know, but she developed a passion for one of the permanent occupants, another friend from college. She would get up very early, before the staggered stagger to the bathroom, and boil potatoes. The potatoes were intended for the loved one’s breakfast. They would sit dry and floury in a pot waiting for him to arise and for her to fry them to perfection. Her attentions, particularly the potato boiling, irritated him. Living six to an apartment, boiling potatoes, drinking whisky. It would be a play to avoid on, even off, Broadway. Somebody I had developed a similarly misguided crush on once made a remark about the potato boiling authoress. It must have been spring or summer as she wore a series of slightly anachronistic cotton dresses that all featured a cut out triangle on the upper part of her back. He asked, “Where does she keep all of the triangles?” It endeared him to me even further. These things and her good skin came to mind when the invitation arrived.
- rachael 10-04-2001 4:22 pm