Food

Crazy days. Lost track of time. It's difficult to wrap my brain around the last three cycles. Tuesday was the endless dart tournament, when we took over the front room at the pub, then Wednesday, we made a couple of crock-pots of chili, at the museum, one vegetarian. It's true, that if everyone gets hungry enough, eating is not a problem. We went over to Kroger, bought a game of Scrabble and a deck of cards. Scott won the dart tournament with TWO bull's-eyes, and I considered killing him, but I redeemed myself at the Scrabble board. I hadn't played a game of any sort in thirty years, nor considered the competitive spirit. TR stayed late with us, at the museum, because we were amusing. B came over, with a former lover of mine, and her partner, and I did the docent thing. I'm not unbeatable at Scrabble, but I'm very good. B said the driveway was passable, and we made plans for the holiday. They'd meet me at the museum, having been to Kroger, and we'd aim for the ridge. Which we achieved, and I built a fire, because the house was very cold, and we needed the stove to be hot. Rhea had requested corn bread, and I had promised a key lime pie, so I did those first; Scott jumped right in, preparing root vegetables for roasting, while I rubbed a couple of pork tenderloins with a mixture of spices and nuts that Rhea had ground with a mortar and pestle. At some point Scott screamed out "Old school!" which I considered a compliment. He made a meringue, for the Key Lime pie, to die for, and we roasted the vegetables and cooked the tenderloins, and it was a epic meal. I sent them back down the hill with a couple of LED flashlights, some heart-felt hugs and a couple of kisses, parting is such sweet sorrow. Really, dude, I have a life. Once I was a weaver, after that, I grew shallots, whatever turned the dime. You might assume one thing, but it could be another. I was up early this morning, woodpeckers drumming on the trees; B came over, to make sure everyone had gotten away safely. The extended Richards' family gathering was huge, filling a barn, three tables of food. B said there was one turkey that never even got sliced. A whole left-over turkey. Imagine. I was confronted with a refrigerator completely stuffed with left-overs, food for days. I got a good fire going, and heated water. Rhea had kept up with washing the dishes, but there was still a sink full of serving platters, cook-wear, and utensils. I had warned everyone off from cleaning my cast-iron, and there were three or four pieces that needed to be cleaned and re-tempered with walnut oil in the oven. Samara called about noon, just as I was finishing the clean-up, and they were already back in Denver, preparing for a nap, before an evening performance. She said it was a great visit, the dart tournament, taking over the front room at the pub; the Scrabble marathon, over bowls of chili at the museum. I napped too, then split a few rounds of firewood. By late afternoon most of the snow is melted, before it gets below freezing again, and the house is warm as toast; the sky is a spangle of pinks and oranges, and I strip down to long-underwear and sweat-pants. I make a tenderloin and roasted root-vegetable frittata, with the left-over egg yolks, that is to die for, and don't make a dent in the left-overs. Life on the ridge.