Off the Cuff

Not that it matters, but I'm so good with an Ultra-Light spinner that I can anticipate where fish will be. It pissed my Dad off, that I was better at it than he was. Not that there was anything competitive. I didn't even think about that, mostly I'm concerned about localized fallout. First off, I don't want anyone mad at me, and I'd rather not accept an award (a bronze banana) come on, the water is fine, than to be so fully exposed. Line squalls. Vicious winds and sheets of rain, I finally just shut down and went to bed. Linda had got me thinking about titles. I'm usually completely literal. What you see. In order to avoid that problem, where the map is as large as the terrain, I leave out a few things. Actually, I leave out almost everything: when you look at something closely, the detail is infinite. I stopped at the job-site, down at Roosevelt lake, which is drained dry, where they're working on the dam. Huge operation. I poke around with a stick. I think I understand what they're doing, injecting high density concrete into the hollow core, and they've moved mountains of limestone. The reason I stopped, though, was because they'd drained the lake, and I could get to the cat-tail patch (far side of the lake) without getting wet. I pulled a dozen new shoots, clipped off the root end and peeled off the outer layer of soon-to-have-been leaves, and put the stalks in the plastic bag that's always in my back pocket this time of year. Usually I just cook these like asparagus and have them with a butter sauce. Instead I make a nice risotto, adding partially pre-cooked chopped cat-tail shoots and morels about halfway through, finishing it with grated cheese and butter. Better than nice, it's one of the best dishes I've ever eaten. I can make another version of this, with day-lily buds, in a couple of weeks. A warning though, the cat-tail shoots retain their cooking heat. The Elder Blow, those lovely and easily identified cymes, will be blooming soon. It's so beautiful, down in the swales; the shadberry, the dogwoods, the red-bud. Pay-back for the winter from hell. Soon as I'm done with Chatuaqua I have to fill the woodshed and finish re-insulating the floor. If I came back right through Columbus, which isn't that difficult, I could pick up a gallon of olive oil and a 20 pound sack of basmati rice, at the middle-eastern market. I want a reading program, for next winter; all of somebody, read in sequence; I have to make my bean order, the order for grits and cornmeal. Speaking freely, it's all I can do, everything is so un-predictable. I'll tell you as soon as I know. I don't trust anything anymore. A tree only looks like a tree. Not a shadow, exactly, but a representation, something seen in a mirror. And how real is that?