The best social analysis is born of personal experience.
(on the train, a girl writes in her diary in her large hand)
"What did you have for dinner that night?" "Stuffed chicken breast stuffed with ham and cheese stuffed with gruyere and prosciutto breaded." "Did we do dessert?"
10.24
11am
Three boys in jeans sit at the table outside the Turkish pastry shop drinking coke, eating pastries, and smoking. A girl passes with leopard print on the side of her half-shaved blond head wearing a leopard-printed gray shirt under a red vest. A boy alternates between sipping from a narrow 2-liter bottle of coke and a glass pint of vodka, one in either firm dry hand.
[Spring]
Her relationship with her daughter isn't simple, but she works hard to create pleasant experiences, for her child and her friends alike. She knows what to do to make things pleasant and nice, like serving a snack of almonds and chocolate in a finger bowl, putting yogurt in a shallow dish for her daughter's breakfast, warming rice and frying an egg, rimming a bowl of blueberries with apple slices: so that it is a little bit nicer but comfortable, normal, something that could only emerge from a kitchen at home. Sometimes her housekeepers (who are almost like friends) make things to eat, too: which reminds me of my childhood: jamaican, indian, guyanese. Weeknight dinner at the kitchen table: chicken breasts pounded flat from the butcher sauteed in butter with salt and pepper, rice stirred in oil until translucent, salad.