Harvesting Rain

Hard rain wakes me, four in the morning, I get up and put out a couple of five gallon buckets to collect wash water. It's supposed to precipitate, in one form or another, for the foreseeable future. A good thing, as the leaf litter will saturate and the danger of fire will dissipate; and unlike the former truck, the Jeep has windshield wipers that actually work. This weather system, it has everything to do with the jet stream, is coming in from the south. Uncommon but not unknown, usually weather here comes from the northwest. I listen to it long enough to realize I won't go back to sleep. It's warm, in the forties, but some of the precipitation seems to be sleet which dances a nice tune on the metal roof. A small fire is all I need, to chase the chill. I put on the Cello Suites, Rostropovich; Bach is sublime, mystical, stirs things I didn't know I had. I listened to the Edgar Meyer transposition for double bass in the main gallery recently, and it was thrilling. The old bank was vibrating. Some notes were so low I didn't really hear them so much as feel them. A penchant for moments like that. Usually involving Bach and being alone. Not that I wouldn't rather be nestled neatly but that I realize my limitations. I'm essentially bogus. And un-improvable. At the end of a day all I have is a string of words. Usually no one says anything, and I accept that. Not unlike a tree-frog asked to identify itself. One more drink and one more cigaret. Damn, I nail myself, there's nothing I can't reveal, but there are some things I can't say. D spent all day working on a data base, I piddled at patching and started sanding. Found a new tobacco pouch on line and D ordered it for me. I may have to run to town tomorrow. Pains me, but I neglected to think through the food-for-three- days issue. Supposed to be in the 60's this weekend, so I won't need a fire, which rules out a pot of beans or chili. The seafood lady at Kroger agreed to get me some salted cod and I can hardly wait for some codfish cakes. Maybe next week. It's a ten pound box (wooden) and will easily last me through the winter. I love them for a weekend brunch or for dinner anytime. One winter on Cape Cod I ate them every day for weeks. Night fishing for cod off the beach at Nauset, I'd bring home 3 or 4 ten-pounders, fillet them out, and store them in the freezer. Bake one, with a smear of mayonnaise and a squeeze of lemon, salt and pepper, let it cool, flake it out, caramelize an onion diced fairly fine, mix with enough left-over (important that they be left over, otherwise the cakes fall apart) mashed potatoes, roll them in bread crumbs and fry in peanut oil. I usually have a fried egg on top. This is damned good. I fed them once to a great cook who had passed out and slept on the sofa, after a meal of rolled and pounded something stuffed with something, and way too many bottles of wine, and she declared it the best damned thing she had ever eaten. Kind of a captive audience, when you think about it, she didn't know how I felt about her getting drunk and sleeping on my sofa. I didn't care, I keep new cheap toothbrushes in a jar over the kitchen sink.