Tuesday, February 12, 2008

Bloor Line, bent over book.

Black woman, mid 20s, with short dreads, wearing glasses and black turtleneck sweater, a black cashmere scarf resting casually over one shoulder.

One Hundred Years of Solitude, Gabriel Garcia Marquez (HarperPerennial)

Page 235:

The train arrived during the hottest time od day. At lunchtime the house shook with the bustles of a marketplace, and the perspiring guests -- who did not even know who their hosts were -- trooped in to occupy the best places at the table, while the cooks bumped into each other with enormous kettles of soup, pots of meat, large gourds filled with vegetables, and troughs of rice, and passed around the contents of the barrels of lemonade with inexhaustible ladles.
There was a time when the very thought of meat would have turned her stomach, the implications, the suffering, the issues of inconscionable consumption and mass production enough to make her protest on the steps of government. Now, while only once a month, she calls ahead and arrives late, making sure her order is packed and ready, the circular sticker barely caging the XXL first bone of her Texas Style beef ribs.

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