Lumbago

Slept wrong, got twisted, somehow, and I hate when my body fails me. Pain is a referent. Thanksgiving was fine except that the phone was out and I couldn't make the holiday phone calls. Read a John Sandford novel and ate a turkey pot pie. Didn't say a word to another person. The fox was at the bottom of the driveway this morning, she looked at me over her shoulder, and scampered up the power easement toward the house. I'll pick up a large bag of small, cull, apples, and carry one with me when I have to start walking in and out. Soon enough. Supposed to be cold and windy the next few days, so I've been bringing in supplies. I've got to bring in my winter drinking water, and a couple of extra half-gallons of juice, a large reserve tin of coffee. I need a back-up jug of whiskey, back-up pouch of tobacco and several extra books of cigaret papers. Chicken broth. OK on dried beans and rice (a great jasmine/pecan rice from Louisiana, long grain) and I already have a large package of smoked jowl (for cooking soups) in the freezer, and enough dried chilies to last for several years. I need to order grits, from that place in Georgia; and get a couple of mantles for the lamps. Pegi told me to leave work early, and I did leave at 4:00, to get a fire started in the cookstove before it got dark and the temps started to plummet. Worked perfectly and I'll leave the new electric/infra-red heater on tonight, so I don't have to get up and start another fire in the middle of the night I'm comfortable right now, which is odd to say (because I live a fairly uncomfortable life) but I know it's true because I have on only one layer of clothing, and it's windy and cold outside. I've got to watch my back on this, but I feel fine about the coming winter. Fuck a bunch of adversity. It's nothing new, pretty much what I expect. Nothing comes easy. I can't believe Jerry Garcia died 17 years ago, I can still hear him, in my mind's ear, taking a song out to the limit, then bringing it back. Clapton is probably a better technician, but for sheer joy, Garcia wins hands down. If Bach had had an eight track recorder, we might have the same record. A cantata a week, with the occasional fugue thrown in. A passion now and then. Like tonight. The perfect baked potato. I'd bought a large Idaho, not that size matters, and had a good bed of coals in the cookstove; washed and pricked, rubbed with olive oil, and wrapped in a couple of layers of foil. Scrape out a concavity, where you could reach in, and turn it, occasional, with tongs. I save the little containers of sour cream that other people throw away, in their 'to-go' orders from the pub, and I had a bunch of them. Butter, watercress (a funny story, I was following a rill over in what I think of as Pentecostal Hollow (though I'm sure it has another name) and found a pool where watercress was growing. There used to be a church there, is why I think of it that way. Fundamental. To the left of Baptist. No mediation at all. Talking in tongues, snakes, the whole nine yards) and I knew I was situated for a great potato. Watercress is my favorite herb. I roll the leaves with my left hand and chop with the right, then mince. Take a very hot potato, slice through the top skin and insert numerous pats of butter, sprinkle with kosher salt, many twists of black pepper, top with watercress, smear on the sour cream, and enjoy. Remember that potato is a heat sink, those first few bites will burn your tongue.