Sometime in May I flipped an omelet in the pan, just like Julia Child told us to. A flick of the wrist, a little faith, and two cooked eggs aloft, turning, landing softly. A flick, faith, and turn.

Now I literally have a different wrist.  It has a metal rectangular plate inside held to my bones by pins, and outwardly looks slightly different from my left.  There is a red, raised scar.  Four months after surgery, there is still pain and stiffness, and I am making more of an effort not to start every conversation with “Did you know I broke my wrist?”

I made an omlet yesterday.  One egg.  Ghee.  It slid easily onto the dish, which was more than I hoped.  I added too much salt, but it was fine, nevertheless.

I saw a photo of Philip Roth’s desk. It looked busy.