Daunt Books

Pages of azure ink. And the man on the waves, feeling his way through the winter, slipping passively beneath the waves, an afterimage in his wake, a woman’s shoulder, belly, breast, the small of her back, the lines tapering to become a mere stroke of the pen, a thread of ink on the thigh, and on the thigh a long, fine
scar
carved with a brush
on the scales of a fish.

Every day homesickness grew in us. Sometimes it was even pleasant, like being in gentle slightly intoxicating company.

The problem with most food writing is that it is too much about ingredients and not enough about appetite.