Buttermilk pancakes for breakfast on Sunday, I think. Hummus for lunch, with cut vegetables and pita. And then pork roast with roasted jalapeño gravy for dinner, over white rice, with quick-pickled okra.
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Now, it’s a long way from chermoula and whole grains, but I’ve been enjoying George Pelecanos and David Simon’s new series about policing in Baltimore, “We Own This City,” on HBO Max. It’s not “The Wire,” but it’s pretty good, “with granular realism, a sly sense of humor and fine acting top to bottom,” as James Poniewozick put it in his review for The Times.
Longreads put me in a time machine and zapped me back to 1981 with this Timothy White profile of Stevie Nicks in Rolling Stone that I think you’ll want to read.
The New Yorker has a new documentary up from Katie Bernstein and Clara Mokri, about those who live on boats in San Francisco, and those who want them gone: “Anchored Out: Evicted at Sea.”
Finally, it’s Allen Ginsberg’s birthday. He would have been 96. Here’s Wilborn Hampton’s obituary for him in The Times, and a poem, too: “A Supermarket in California,” from 1955. I’ll see you on Sunday.
