apples

The last undemanding day of summer. I wrote furiously, as if there was to be no tomorrow. Five pages, delivered. A record for me.

In the evening, I put it down. I reached for the apples and pealed them, one after another. I rolled out the dough, cooked the crème patisserie and threw it all together.





It’s rare that I bake complicated pastries these days. It’s rare that I have last days of summer where words tumble like apples from a neglected apple tree.