Enough Already

The snow that was supposed to accumulate to less than an inch finally tapered off at six inches. My road is closed, and Pegi called to say that a semi is jack-knifed at the junction of Rt.125 and 52. I sweep a path out to the woodshed and split enough Sycamore to fill the boxes. Tomorrow is likely to be ok, but then much colder and more snow. Work on the path down to the dead oak, then driven back inside by swirling snow and obbligato wind. In the winter mode of shaving at night, because the house is too cold in the morning. Putting some books away, I came across John Thorne's "Mouth Wide Open" and spent most of the day rereading his delightful essays on various foods, had forgotten the lovely piece on grits. He uses a very small crock pot, one-and-a-half quarts, and cooks them overnight, which I can certainly understand, because they are a pain in the ass to cook properly. Still, for me, fixing them on the cookstove, is the way to go. The stove is going all the time anyway, and after bringing the grits to a boil and putting them on a corner of the stove, raised on a trivet, stirring whenever I get up from reading or writing, which I do often, works very well indeed. I have a serving right when they're done, one way or another, then fridge the rest. They keep very well, and a few tablespoons, nuked, with a fried egg on top, is a great winter snack. I did a batch today, with the last of the acorn meal, using half chicken broth (one can of broth to a can of water for a cup of meal/grits) then discovered, and shocked, that I was out of butter AND cheese. I fried the egg in extra bacon fat, the gods forgive me, and it was so good that I immediately had another round. Fortified thus I bring in several armloads of wood, and, as I'm suited up, go for a walk down the logging road. Blood markings around a spot where the fox killed some little something. My three crows show up from nowhere, I didn't see them coming, establish their command post near the outhouse, then follow me on my walk. I think I'm on the Bird Channel, the way they comment. It's like they're interviewing me, I tell them to fuck off, but in a nice way, and they add a coda in a language I'm don't understand. There are two Pileated Woodpeckers working several trees over on the power easement, and I have a favorite stump at the top; I'm carrying the small winter-walk pack, so I have my foam pad, use one side to knock the snow off the stump, then sit on the other side and roll a smoke. I look in the pack, because I'm not really an orderly person, and wonder what I had put there, and added to over time. Mostly never use anything but the foam pad, but a list of things in the pack is interesting. Everything given to me by someone else, I bought none of this, the heat pads activated by flexing, the power bars, a space-blanket, a bar of chocolate, the box of matches sealed in wax. I don't know, I think you live in your world and I think I live in mine. Everything is relative. I'm amazingly stupid when it comes, when it comes to what anyone means. You and whatever. I assume you as a matter of ways.You and me, babe, the various byways. I could assume I meant what I thought I was saying.