Farm Fresh

A simple fish stew. In a deep pot brown some onions and garlic, dump in some tomatoes, half a bottle of a nice dry white wine, drink the rest, chunk in some pieces of firm fish and add some cleaned mussels. Everyone gets a loaf of bread. Don't tell anyone you're filming. Over cognac, later, we talked about the way we wanted to be remembered. I remember saying, that I didn't want anyone thinking that I knew anything about anything. It's a fall-back position. They usually let the stupid guy go, because he can't advance the case. Usually I play the part of the stupid guy. It works for me. Standing in the background and sounding simple. It's not that easy. Lunch with TR tomorrow, but maybe not; he's worked so many extra hours he deserves a long week-end, and I don't have a phone, so I can't call, to verify. I'm going to town anyway, to see Ronnie at the Farmer's Market, get a few local tomatoes, I need bread, and whatever else is on the list. I'm making a great open-face sandwich in the toaster oven right now. A piece of pre-toasted bread, topped with a can of sardines, a couple of slices of a very good vine-ripened tomato, some goat cheese, a sprinkling of basil, some kosher salt and a twist of pepper. Your wildest dreams. I make it a habit, to eat this well every day. Almost every day. I made a list. Headed off to the farmer's market, and ran into a street fair. Labor Day parade. Can't tell you how much I hate this shit, but I know all the alleys and I squirrel around, found a parking space, and retreated to the pub where I drank a slow pint and had a large glass of water, then hummus and pita chips. TR was at the museum, he hadn't made lunch because he had to drive twenty minutes around the parade (the parade was almost two hours long) and we talked for a while, sitting at the front desk, until the road was clear and I could make it to the library. I found a couple of things, fiction, to leaven the biography of Faulkner and this continued reading I'm doing on cave art. Got what I needed at Kroger. Stopped at B's place for cold seltzer water and he had three more books for me, I had one for him. His phone was out too and that places the problem somewhere on Mackletree, because the last line forks at the bottom of the hill, over to his place and up to mine. We are the end of the line. I looked closely on the way out and the way back in but there were no dead trees, I could see, that might take out the service. The line has been repaired so many times, 28 junctions in two miles, that it looks like a knotted string. A knotted string can be quite telling, like notches in a stick. That's what I'm saying, meaning accrues. Eventually you have sheep to trade for shells with holes in them. One way or another, you keep track. Survival comes down to bookkeeping.