Indian summer

A startling late burst of summer today, hot pale chamomile sunshine washing the scrubby lawns at the Mauerpark and the lounging couples, families with a basket, a rug and someone running after the toddler, fire-twirling practise, angular street-chic boys pow-wowing around their campfire-piled cycles, dogs sniff-greeting other dogs warily while their owners exchange guten Tag with their eyes, sightseers with half a retina on the map and the other on their Canon EOS.

I was thoughtful when someone wanted me to be talkative, but I do not want to diffuse things today. I bought some basil, and some absurdly cheap Spanish nectarines, and a bunch of coriander from the AsiaMarkt which has nam pla for 0.99 and green bananas and taro in the fresh vegetables boxes and at the back a wild kitsch mosaic of more flavours of instant noodle than I thought there were things you could stick powdered into a little foil sachet.

Chicken stock is on the stove burbling as though it has Broadway dreams of being a potion with dramatic narrative possibilities. Tomorrow I will make it into chicken congee.