Vinegar Mother

Ronnie had some hard pear cider that went over the edge. This happens. Things want to turn into vinegar, it's the natural process. There's a strange gelatinous mass that occurs, sometimes, in this operation, that we call a vinegar mother. If you're lucky enough to start one, and you keep feeding it any juice or wine or beer that has residual sugar, it grows. Remember that movie, "The Blob"? It gets like that. Marilyn and I had a mother in Mississippi that filled most of a five-gallon bucket and was able to convert almost anything to vinegar. Heat death of the universe. Sugar water infused with fennel, vinegar; a failed green-tomato sherry, vinegar; a left-over burrito and a packet of Spenda, vinegar. We finally killed it by leaving it out in the sun. There's a small mother in this pear vinegar from Ronnie and I decide to cultivate it, what the hell, I could use a friend. I carefully pour off the vinegar, which is excellent (I sip it, occasionally) and put the mother in a sterile quart jar, feed it the remains of the day, a pinot noir I wouldn't drink if you paid me. My plan is to slip this mother into the water system of a major metropolitan area, and have everyone drinking vinegar water before they know it. Best laid plans. Some do-gooder gets wind and I'm locked in a Birmingham jail. It was a riff, ok? a joke. Barnhart has to bail me out and now I'm on some sort of watch list. I don't have a passport, but I do have a lot of shady friends, I could probably stay underground for a while. In the wind. I could disappear completely, I have an alternate identity, but there are still people I love. Phone out last night. Up too early this morning, so I napped on the sofa. Library called yesterday, and the new biography of Emily (and the family, and the feuds) was available. "Lives Like Loaded Guns." Picked it up today. Looks good, going to take me a few days. It'll be fine to delve deeply into the life and times, and this woman, Lyndall Gordon, is quite good on the poems. Put my name on the list for an apartment in a building that's a block from the museum and a block from Kroger. Location is everything. My truck lost its four-wheel drive, need to put some weight in the back. Samara called, from NYC, and it was loud in the background, Kaylee yelled that her ass was looking good and I told Samara to tell her I could tell from here. I must have mentioned her ass in a post. It was disconcerting. Trying to work out the logistics for thanksgiving. I think I'll cook a capon, stuffing on the side, roast vegetables, a turnip and cabbage slaw, the traditional Key Lime pie. Brother Kevin can go get the girls at the airport, they fly into Jax at 9 AM Thanksgiving morning. Cutting it close. I'll need to be cooking. The menu could change if anyone made a strong case. I could do ribs, or crabs, or oysters. Mostly what I want is a decent gravy and a way to convey it to my mouth. Putting a price on something is a difficult thing. I fall back on the actual cost, materials, don't factor in the labor, no way you could pay my pain and suffering. Because it wasn't really, my time here was well spent, I got to know a fox, I watched some frogs, I'll remember certain sunsets forever. I could move to Stephanie's silo, but I've never built curved bookcases before. Someone asked me how I thought about things, and I told them I didn't, the things thought about me. Off the cuff, but I almost believe that. Meaning is a deeply embedded thing that rarely is what it seems to be. Just a warning. I bounce up against this every day, because I think deeply about everything. Today's false lead was the late afternoon light on the river. I would have followed that anywhere.