Preparations

Cold but clear morning, 20 degrees, supposed to be below zero by Wednesday night. I strip down, change clothes, throw everything in a basket and head off to the laundromat. I need clean long-underwear. Stop at the library, then at Kroger, to pick up some things for split-pea and ham soup. Mailed off my bills for the month ( there are only three of them), stop at the courthouse, to reapply my tree farm for its tax break, then head home. Build a good fire, then make the soup, bring it to a boil and pull it almost all the way off the heat. I'll leave it at the edge of the stove, on a trivet, all night, pease porridge hot. I have a few left-over roasted root vegetables and I'll mash them tomorrow, to thicken the broth. With cornbread, I think that covers all the food groups. Whenever I roast vegetables anymore, I always do a tray of kale chips, they never make the menu because I eat them all. Half the fun, living the way I do, is not knowing what happens next. I was sure it had something to do with prime numbers. Instead, it seems to have to do with the way we factor time. When I write, I'm no longer cold, I'm in the zone. I don't feel anything really; my feet may be cold, but you can live without a few toes. I read about cannibalism for a couple of hours, then napped on the sofa, got back up around two and stoked the stove, set the soup off the heat. Got just a taste of Irish whiskey, rolled a smoke, went out and sat on the back porch for a few minutes. Light snow, quite cold, but I'm in so many layers of clothes it doesn't matter. It's very peaceful, sitting in what could easily pass for absolute darkness, an utterly still world, and completely quiet, except for the slight cracking sound as things freeze more solid. Nice to know I have a hot cup of soup inside, that I can thaw my ass against the stove, that I can rant, out loud, swearing like a sailor, against anything that crossed my path. Seven-thirty in the morning and the sky finally changes to a purple-blue. There's a haze, where the ground gives up moisture, not unlike the steam from a simmering pot. After eight, finally, a slim salmon ribbon defines the horizon, then it disappears in gray. Yes, Molly said.