Food Thoughts

Just after dawn I crank up a good fire and get the duck breasts out of the fridge. Marinated over night in papaya juice with white wine and rosemary. I sear them, then braise in the liquid for 40 minutes. I don't like rare duck. The reason for this early cook-off is so that I can have duck hash for breakfast, with a fried egg on top. A small pone of cornbread, half of which I save to have toasted with the beans (peas) and other breast later. Rereading John Thorne essays most of the day, he is one of my favorite writers; with attention paid to Osso Buco and Risotto Milanese which I hope to make next weekend. I'd like to write a book called "Backwoods Fusion" which would be along the lines of Marjorie Rawlins' "Cross Creek" or almost anything by MFK Fisher. "Varieties Of The Acorn And Cornmeal Experience", or "My Time On The Ridge", highlighting meals along the way. Also I want to write a fairly long exposition about a very small event. I did this before, in the now lost manuscript "On Three" (Glenn's title) but I have recovered one-ninth of the manuscript, so I might be able to remember what I was thinking. The tell, the telling, is in that almost painful detail. Painful is probably the wrong word there, I know what I mean, a slight discomfort, one on a scale of ten, and I'm just thinking, quickly, and supply a word, to keep the narrative going. Later, going back, looking for nuance to extend the argument, I question every word choice. Might better have said 'microscopic', or, simply, 'close'. Dinner is wonderful. I ate at the island, reading about marrow, butter before there was butter, and I read a dozen recipes for cooking marrow-bones. What I noticed, late in the day, was that everything was peaceful. The violent winds were done. The stick trees were still, in steel gray overcast. Never lost power, which is quite surprising because the wind was screeching, then today it cleared a bit, an idle drizzle. In the afternoon there were some patches of blue and I walked over to the cemetery. The graves are marked with slight depressions (rotted caskets and loose fill) that collect leaves and water and turn black. Several salamanders, black with red spots, and because the leaf-mass is black (the shades of black are endless) the red spots stand out in several dimensions. I'd bought a nice single-malt, a Glendronach 12, I crack that and have a wee dram, roll a smoke, get my lap blanket, and read. One should always be reading Shakespeare, and I'm rereading Coriolanus right now. I'd love to direct this, with B and Philip as Coriolanus and Aufidius, it's so fraught. All I'm asking is that we stay the execution.