In a cafe on State Street in Santa Barbara, I gave the barista my printed copy of Zora Neale Hurston's taut short story, Black Death. She'd seen me reading it while I scoffed a buttermilk biscuit (read: scone, dear British and non-American reader) and I wanted to do something good while I was on this self-indulgent Californian holiday.
American jam and the pectin deficit
American jam and the pectin deficit
American jam and the pectin deficit
In a cafe on State Street in Santa Barbara, I gave the barista my printed copy of Zora Neale Hurston's taut short story, Black Death. She'd seen me reading it while I scoffed a buttermilk biscuit (read: scone, dear British and non-American reader) and I wanted to do something good while I was on this self-indulgent Californian holiday.