The Tell

My different schedule got me up at two this morning to follow up on some reading I was doing about the Irish hearth. I had been reading about potatoes and one thing lead to another. Baking potatoes, wrapped in foil, in the back of the firebox, means that I usually have one ready. I caught the fire perfectly, when I came back inside after going out to pee. It was very cold, but I wanted to look at the sky, to be outside for a few minutes. The leaf-litter was frozen, but it's still several inches thick and it's like walking on a confection. A good bed of coals is a lovely thing. Routine: open the damper, stoke the fire, get a drink, roll a smoke, read for a while, write, spend some time thinking about commas, damp the stove back down. Also I had a great baked potato, a small Russet, lost in the ash. On a cold night, a small baked potato, with salt and pepper and a large pat of butter, is a comforting snack. One thing I really hate is the way things are constellated that only the rich win and everyone else makes minimum wage. A pet peeve. This time of year, if I can get to town, I almost always go, pick up a few things. Another package of lamb shanks, incredibly meaty ones, and some parsnips, more tobacco, or a single-malt. The Jeep was great today. When I went out everything was frozen solid, and it was easy getting down, but I stayed in town for a while, the library, the pub for a bowl of Irish Stew and a pint, Kroger, and though it was still below freezing when I got home, sunlight had thawed the top layer at the crest of the driveway but it was no problem. I'd stopped down at B's for a beer and his former student and friend, Rodney was there, splitting wood. B was watching, standing a little awkward, seems he had played football with the twins and taken a fall, probably cracked some ribs, and Rodney had come over to split some wood. We went inside, had a beer, and talked about breath units in the spoken word. Caesura. A pause, Emily's dashes, my current relationship with commas.