He’s my neighbor Dick (Kris Kringle isn’t actually his name) who’s such an expert gardener that he confidently picks and eats wild mushrooms. These are Birch boletes growing near the roots of a birch in the traffic circle. He says they taste like Shiitakes. (NOTE: DO NOT TRY THIS YOURSELF AND POISON YOURSELF AND BLAME US).
Dick’s house is on the corner behind him and his garden fills every inch of space along the sidewalk on 46th with raspberries, tomatoes and even a grape arbor. It’s the most productive home garden I’ve ever seen.
Smoot has learned to shake hands for a treat.
Outside the Rusty Pelican, an exiting diner hands his leftovers to a homeless person, and gets a hearty handshake of gratitude.
Unmentionable treats being assembled inside the Erotic Bakery.
The rain is pouring down and drivers along 45th St. honk at each other impatiently. Of the many dozens of people walking around only one other besides myself is carrying an umbrella.
I am left speechless by this window display.