Going Home

Noticed a plant, off the verge, in the bottom-land near the river. Shouldn't be flooded this time of year, but it was, and the edges were beautifully encased in ice. Plant stalks held rigidly isolate. I found a place to pull over and walked back; I know the plant but can't remember the name. The dried seed-pod was formerly used to card wool, still can be, for that matter. Oh, right, Teasel, thus the name, tease it out. Memory loss, I've forgotten so many things, or maybe just too much to remember. Most is simply archived in the storage areas of the brain, but when needed, or called out by some sharp smell, or brought to mind by a pattern of rain drops. I actually once saved a bag of fleece, after a shearing in Colorado, carded it with teasel seed-pods. (I like hyphens, they can't take that away from me.) Not to make a point, but just because I wanted to know, that in a pinch, I could do that particular thing. Put it in my tool box. You can make cloth with very primitive tools. Noted. You can make paper that way too. Teasel paper is a beautiful thing and will last as long as papyrus. Samara calls, and my first thought is goddamn it, because I'm afraid I'll lose the thread, BUT I want to talk with her, I love her, and I love her world, and I want to visit, and the thing about threads, assuming a woven example, is that there always is one. That's awkward, but you get my drift. It might have been a metaphor. More likely a simile. I'm sure I meant something. A good survival trait is to stay flexible. I'd been thinking about various soups, the muddle we get in; and the kinds I'd be making, of which I'd freeze a portion or two, so I needed to clean out the freezer. Led to a memorable risotto moment. I collect pounds of various stalks, I freeze them. When I make a vegetable stock I smash them up with the edge of a spoon. Conan The Barbarian. What was that thread? I was going somewhere, but I was distracted by something. For the first time this season I'm wearing Linda's gloves, which have no fingers and only half-a-thumb, she knew I needed to roll cigarettes. Is this just another French Fry? That she'd know. I boil pounds of stalks, and end with a broth. I make the best asparagus soup in the history of the universe. The rest of this leaves me behind. One thing well.