Minor Mess

More rain, which is a good thing because I used a lot of water yesterday, and I must have had a wee dram too much to drink, because I don't actually remember going to bed. Obviously I ate ribs, there's a plate of bones on the island. The dish-drain is mounded with bowls and storage containers, the bottom shelf in the fridge is no longer sticky, and the produce drawer is outside in the rain, with solvents, in an attempt to get rid of the black tar that is the end result of moldering carrots. I didn't put them there, I never use that drawer because it's hard to open, this is clearly a case of some goddamn vegetarian setting me up for a fall. And the sauce is fantastic, overtones and undertones; a bit sharp on the tongue, which I quite like, then exploding into tropical fruit. The kitchen is a mess, another round of dishes, but I had dined well, and I ask no more than that. Just before I went to sleep, I see later, when I go out to pee, that I had placed a couple of buckets under the drip-edge, so I build a fire and heat some water. Four in the morning, scrubbing pots and pans. What could be more natural? Hoot owl singing in the dead of night. Creaking, as your bones, but a message, nonetheless. Red-Bud across the hollow. Noticed it at sunrise today, a pink blush, across the way, and now, later the same day, a flush of red maples. I called B at the college, and told him to come over and get some ribs for his dinner and he said he would. When he did we talked about food and cooking, and food writers, about my potential gig as a once a week cook. What I might cook. I reminded him of a leg of lamb he'd cooked years ago, maybe eight pounds, pierced with garlic and marinated in blackberry juice, that was one of the great meals ever. We talked about how you could closely approximate any given meal, pounded pork tenderloin medallions, stuffed with apples and pickled ginger, a game hen stuffed with morels and acorn mush, or a simple catfish, poached in white wine, with a rosemary sauce.