Around my sister’s table on Saturday night, we ate an autumnal feast of butternut squash risotto and kale salad made with October’s sweet leaves, and fresh, thick slabs of salmon crunched up with hazelnuts that we call filberts for Curt’s sake.
We traded stories, mostly centered on the impending birth of Cait and Curt’s child. There’s news for you. Come February they’ll be a new baby in the family and we’re all so excited you might imagine the conception had been immaculate and we’re awaiting the second coming of a savior. We sat at the table and listened to this piece, produced by a friend I made one summer in college, and made our own guesses about whether the baby will be a boy or a girl. The guessing is half the fun.
While we waited for pears to roast in the oven, I made boasts about seeing Paul Giamatti twice last week, prompting Curt to read aloud this piece written by Paul’s dad, a college pal of Curt’s own father.
It’s a small world after all.
I’ve never been a real baseball girl, but I’ve caught wind that it’s the season to be paying attention and Bart Giamatti’s essay is the kind of work that could convert any non-believer. If you have a minute over lunch, I hope you’ll give it a read.