Shit Happens

Don't paint yourself into a corner. Maybe the last stew of winter, my diet is seasonal. The Key Lime pie is a hit. Tomorrow I must watch the intake of single malt until the food is on the table. Three hours, to prepare the meal, but Glenn will be keeping time, in my head I have what needs to be done. A matter of course. This conversation is unusual, that we talk about the things we do. I have to remind myself. Fuck, yeah, man, that's what we were talking about. Other. We talked tonight about writer and reader, drew no conclusions, but something is happening, where I meet you, a congress. I'm amazed, what you understand; I often don't get it, then I understand, a delayed response. What I don't understand is legion. What I do understand is good food, good drink, and conversation. Last night they broke into song, dinner was ready and they broke into song. Catches or rounds, Purcel? It was enthusiastic. The ribs were very good, near perfect, Baby Backs, three slabs, and the butcher had trimmed one slab badly and there was a sizable vein of loin running down the middle. I brown the slabs quickly, over very high heat, brush a mixture of lime juice and butter over the seared surfaces, wrap them in foil, cook them two hours, off the heat, turning them every 15 minutes. You end up with this liquid, in the foil boat, that is very good. Worth saving, better than that. To die for. Glenn and I rack it off, he supports the back of the boat and I control the spout, we get it all. It becomes the sauce for the ribs and I save some of it, to start the sauce for the pork tenderloin medallions tonight, with scallions and mushrooms. It was the best sauce I've ever made for anything. Not reproducible, because it was built over several nights, but I think I know what happened, so I could approximate something close. The eggplant, Diana, was divine, slightly too salty for my taste (when I sweat the eggplant I need to wipe it more carefully) but everyone likes salt. We're salty, when you get down to it, blood and seawater share the stage. Nothing profound, just that. Sodium. Confronted thus. You can laugh, but sometimes things are serious. I might move, for instance, because things are uncomfortable; we all do this, get up, walk around, wet a finger and check the wind. What Glenn preaches, and it's true, that everything is local. Linda knits, while we talk, mutters over a mistake, I wish I was repairing a fishing net, something useful. I do cook several spectacular meals. In particular, the sauce for the tenderloin medallions is a work of art. It starts simply but after considered attention takes the floor. A layered flavor. So good we have to remind ourselves that it's real, not a dream, but an actual sauce. One thing leads to another. I prepare a meal for someone who isn't there. Nothing unusual, never mind. Heat some water, wash some dishes. I'm lucky there are people I can talk with. A quirk of personality. Nothing is what it seems. I really must go to sleep. Much food left over, must have thought I was feeding an army. Achieved a first in cooking on the wood-stove. The surface is 22 inches by 36 inches and every square inch was being utilized, an astounding assortment of cast iron. Everyone, at every meal, eats seconds; ribs snatched from the tray as food is put away. We use a roll of paper towels desaucing ourselves. More singing, interrupted with soft belches. Sunday night is a luxury of conversation. I love this company, tireless in the pursuit of connections, Linda knitting. She did a monologue on the death of her father that was brilliant, heart-rending without the least taste of sentimentality. Extraordinary. At one point Glenn and I were 13 stations deep into a conversation, and he, to his credit, with an assist from Aberlour, pulled, point by point, the thread from the morass. Like that. Non-family becomes uber-family. Even in my life, having been the janitor in a great many places, and always finding people for a great evening of dining, drinking, and conversation, this weekend stands out. Today I cleaned, did the dishes, repackaged the left-overs, froze some marinara (what was I thinking, a gallon was excessive), and finally did the laundry. A still overcast day. Perfect. Lots of birds and the attendant song. A quietness floods the ridge. Palpable. It was an intervention, that Diana had planned, I think. That she sensed I needed friends around, to cook for, to drink with (my god they brought a lot of booze), to talk with. What can I say? She was correct. And Glenn hooked up my new printer. I was reading myself at the laundromat today, hard copy. I seem to be transparent. Yesterday, afternoon light, Glenn filming, Linda had not seen the graveyard, we walked over there. Owning a graveyard doesn't have to be strange, but I would think it almost always is. I don't think about it for long periods of time, then I walk over there, graves, natural rock headstones with crudely etched dates. Primitive burial. The best that could be done at the time. Minerva was buried mid-winter, how did they get the coffin up here? Who dug the hole? Coffee cans and plastic flowers. What do they mean? If we have a clock, we can note the time, if we have a map, we can note the place, but the nature of reality is a mystery. What Ralph saw is not the same thing Linda saw. They come to the table with different maps.