Simple Math

It's late. A last coal train across the river, in Kentucky. I put on the sixth cello suite, transcribed for the double bass. Actually, it seems to have been written for a five-stringed instrument, or a lute, maybe. But in the dark, I only rise to what makes me feel human. Why and how does Bach move me so fundamentally? We usually get a significant storm, this time of year, so I go into town to pay the vehicle insurance, get extra whiskey, tobacco, drinking water, and stop at the pub where Lindsay makes me a Bloody Mary to go with a bowl of Irish stew. Drive back home the long way around, up the creek, so I can stop at the ford, drive through a couple of times, to clean the undercarriage and wheel-wells of the Jeep. By the time I get home it's nearly dark and I have to use my headlamps on the driveway. I have little idea what happened to the day. Doesn't matter. I have books and booze, and I'll eat well. Broken clouds, but it looks like rain to the west, our weather direction. Another day of rain, just enough to keep me indoors, besides I read all night (a biography of Ezra Pound) then slept most of the morning, then sat and thought about the opera. I thought about triplets, then about Haiku, then read Basho again. It gets dark early, rains fairly hard and I put out buckets, now that the roof is clean, and collect wash water. The trend toward pre-cut vegetables has resulted in a whole new section in the produce area at Kroger, and, of course, a new selection of discounted items. I made a lovely stir-fry without chopping a damned thing, with fish sauce (garum) on saffron rice, two meals, cost three dollars. Jana, my NYC friend, recommended adding a strong cup of coffee to a pot of black beans, and she is correct, it's a great addition. I not only have a good supply of black beans but I also have several pounds of an heirloom black pea, a crowder pea from Africa, that I think I'll cook next. I always serve it on an opened slice of toasted cornbread because the liquor is incredibly wonderful, and cornbread is a great transport. Heartened to know that the days are getting longer, the first milestone of winter, and that in a mere 60 days I'll be able to feel my toes again. Alternating between biscuits and cornbread, I think about my Dad, who always wanted hot fresh bread at dinner; sliced bought bread, he thought, was only good for sandwiches that you took with you when you went fishing. I didn't know my family was poor until they weren't any longer. I actually thought, still do, that sucking on salt-pork rinds was better than chewing gum. Not to get nostalgic, but I enjoyed when we rented a boat and paddled over to a place where we could catch dinner, eating fried potato sandwiches, with mayonnaise, on sliced white bread. Making biscuits from scratch is very easy, just don't handle the dough any more than you have to, and I can make cornbread over an open fire in a snowstorm. I still often make a fried egg sandwich, toasted sliced bread, double wrapped, that I carry in my pocket, when I venture out into the woods.