Road Trip

Looking at the map, projecting. Going down I might spend the night in Columbia, South Carolina; on the way back, in Norton, Virginia. Just a guess, I don't make reservations. Tomorrow I need to get to town for salad makings and booze. The brindle pup is a cute thing, I think he will be a monster, hybrid vigor, he dives face-first into the feed. If I fought dogs, he'd be my first choice. I don't fight dogs, or chickens, you know what I mean. Quick trip into town for some supplies, water and liquids mostly. Spent a few hours working on firewood. Tomorrow I need to cut everything in the woodshed, then move the wood I've left along the driveway under cover. There's a good bit, spread here and there, and now that the driveway is truly passable, I can buy a round. $100 for a dry, split, small dump-truck load. Back on EST, the day winds down rather quickly. Falls into chill. I get a hell of a fire going and make another batch of biscuits. A fresh biscuit, split in half, covered in cheese, run through the oven, then topped with sliced avocado, is a revelation. Anything is good on a fresh biscuit, deviled ham and jalapenos, peanut butter, the last of a pot of beans. I had the last of yesterday's biscuits, for lunch, split, buttered, covered with canned sardines and a slice of onion, heated through. I think of this as fusion cooking. I'm probably just confused. I studied biscuit making at the hands of my mother, it's all feel, nothing is ever measured, you rub the flour into the fat until the grains are the right size, then you add buttermilk, roll it out and cut them. No big deal. But try this at home and you have flour on the ceiling, fat on the walls, and nothing that resembles a real southern biscuit. I had to watch for a long time before I realized it was a matter of feel. That fucking butterfly in Mexico, everything did affect everything else. I wasn't playing close enough attention, the story of my life, most everything passes me by. Looking at a leaf when a swallow is the story. Eat the whole batch of biscuits, one, with lump crabmeat heated in butter, with several grinds of black pepper, is so good, I actually cry out loud.