So it may seem trivial to drag oneself all over 25th street, to refind Hill Chicken (if that's the name) where I had with my friend Rachel Brownstein the best oldtimey crusty-crinkly-skinless thing thigh ever, and I did, and that set me up to work in the American Archives of Art documents about Frank DuMond, my painter grandmother's teacher and who did the murals for the ballroom in the Hotel des Artistes, the ancestor of the Cafe des Artistes -- they all lived there, the painters who worked in Old Lyme, Ct., at the Florence Griswold House, where we are about to go  -- before we leave for Udine in Italy, near Venice, where I am so delightedly going to speak on Joseph Cornell and Emily Dickinson, and Mary Caponegro, before we go to Bremen, where my grandmother used to live and worked out at Worspwede 28 miles away and we wil have ONE DAY there, before getting back down to Berlin and its museums, before, indeed, we return to New York, so I will pick up my seminar again, on Modernist singularities (what? what?) yes
and here's to Hill Chicken and its crunch