Definitely Sibelius

The way those horns come in over the top. Expansive. I can actually feel the snow. Maybe it helps that I spent some time in his hut, where he wrote "The New World..." and what is that screeching at the end? Trailing off into a very passive violin rift. Then a shift to Bluegrass, which I listen to, for a while, until the inane lyrics make me want to shoot myself. "You're the best mistake I never made", "Working hard ain't working anymore", "When people ask what's wrong, I take the blame". Made a crock pot of stone-ground grits overnight and have a bowl at dawn with cream and maple syrup, the rest I stuff into a can so I can chill them, slice and fry later, as a poor man's polenta. Some pork loin chops in the remaindered bin at Kroger. I pound these out, like veal cutlets, using the nozzle from a fire hose, my tenderizer of choice. It has a flared tip at the business end, so it doesn't slip out of your hand, and the thickened ring, where it attached to the hose, is a perfect meat hammer. These cook very quickly in a hot skillet, a little bacon fat, two or three minutes a side, and can be served in a variety of ways. Four meals for $2.12 isn't bad. I had a bag of carrots, I don't even know where they came from, B must have brought them over, and while I read at the island, an essay about Gericault, I caramelize a batch of slices using my largest cast-iron skillet, 12 inches, so I could keep them in a single layer, just a little salt, and a mere pinch of sugar, to give them the idea of converting. Ate the last of this week's tomatoes, sliced, with a round of polenta, and just a splash of white balsamic and a touch of wasabi. I picked up a jar of wasabi powder, which should last the rest of my life, and I just mix up a little when I need it. I'm always bringing home bottles of wine from the museum, so there's usually some liquid, other than water, to emulsify things. Reading back over myself, as I've been doing recently, I seem to be saying something that isn't said, but I'm not, at least not consciously, doing that, I'm just talking about cooking onions, which, on the face of it, doesn't seem that interesting. Conversion, why am I hung up on that? My parents are barely Christian and I never went to church, we were usually fishing, eating sandwiches from eggs in a jar and having an early beer against the heat of the day. Linda says at times that I'm a beautiful writer, I don't know what that means, exactly, but I take it as a compliment. I assume it has something to do with being honest. Upon close examination, I'm sorry, I just report what I see.