Dappled Light

Worked outside, then picked off ticks for an hour. Came in early to clean up and cure a pork loin. Going for something vaguely Italian. First mix up the rub: one half brown sugar, one quarter salt, one quarter mixed black pepper and the six dried chili powders (one is the frighteningly hot green chili that hits like wasabi but doesn't let go), then get the loin out of it's impossible wrapper, cut the ends off for two other meals, dry the four pound middle, and pat on the cure, covering every square inch, put it on a rack inside a disposable aluminum roaster rack in the fridge. Seal up the rest of the rub/cure for further application, I'll check it every couple of days, cure it for a couple of weeks. Slices of this, soaked in milk, blotted dry, fried in olive oil, will be breakfast meat for a month. Almost feel bad about venting last night, but the writing was nothing compared to the verbal tirade I went on afterwards. Another bonus of living alone is being able to invent truly obscene phrases and bounce them off the walls. I felt much better this morning, clean spleen and all, then sweating out the bile in a day that was not too hot. I rarely let mere words get to me, but sometimes things catch you at just the wrong moment, I'd had a rough week and my defenses were down, and maybe the phrase "mundane drivel" was too close to the truth. So beautiful outside today, a few isolated clouds but mostly blue sky and dappled light that already speaks of fall. I girdled a couple of oak trees, chopping all the way around with a sharp hatchet, removing the bark and cambium, so no more moisture would rise and the leaves would suck the trees dry before I drop them in the fall, a neat trick. That blue sky, while I cleaned up and cured the meat today, I listened to the Allman Brothers, loudly, kind of dancing at the sink while I washed my hair, humming along, off-key. I subscribe to simple pleasures, low expectations. Start a fire in the grill, Mesquite, rub one of the loin tips with just the chilies, sear it on the heat then dot it with butter, drizzle with lime juice and wrap it in foil, off the heat for an hour, let it rest while I pick off ticks. Slice some baby seedless cucumbers (remaindered) sliced in balsamic, my signature sliced new potatoes in butter and milk, nuked, then torched with a topping of cheese using a propane canister (I still can't believe I do this, but it works) and I have a meal that would make the gods jealous. It's so good I can't read, thank god I'm eating alone because I couldn't possibly make conversation. MFK Fisher talks about eating a dinner of mashed potatoes, alone, that is like this, I can't remember where, every fork-full is a transport of joy. Just as I'm finishing eating, my old friend, the pileated woodpecker, flies in, offers a few squawks, bouncing down the trunk of a hickory tree; he seems to cock his head and view me suspiciously, after a few moments I wave him away, preferring the last bites of dinner. His crest is magnificent, but I have a life too, need to finish dinner and write you. I'll clean up in the morning, love is strange.