Black Dell

I thought she was dead, because I couldn't Send, but actually my phone was out, and I had formatted something wrong (a period for a comma) in the Send To section of one post, so I think things got out of order. But everything is working fine now. Rain this morning, and I collected enough water to bathe and shave. After the rain, before the ablutions, I went out and found enough morels, in the patch nearest the house, where I don't have to get in deep litter, for a meal. I have some good country bread and some very fresh eggs, so I opt for eggs on toast, with morels in a butter gravy on top. Any morel meal, now, could be the last morel meal of the year. I make a butter gravy by spooning out the mushrooms, adding some dry white wine to deglaze, spooning in another walnut of butter, softened, infused with chives (or whatever) and several squeezes of black pepper. Sometimes I add cream to this, sometimes I don't. I spoon it back on top and run it under the broiler. It's a hit. I don't want to bore you with how good it is, but I actually squeal. Damn, the thought goes, it can't possibly be this good. Simple pleasures. Wasn't that the working title for Gravity's Rainbow? We're due for a Pynchon. Black Bart and his crew, or something. I'm on the verge of being depressed by D leaving. It really is the changing of the guard. Travels and travails. The ghost of Robert Johnson. Crossroads are common, especially in the back-country. Changes. Am I born to die? What will become of me? To lay this body down. Bella Fleck and the three-finger claw hammer. I sing because I'm happy, I sing because I'm free. I'm sorry, what were we talking about?