Idle Thoughts

Gone down the wrong way? What did that mean? There was a sound, an irregular tapping that might have been water, but it sounded dry. I couldn't find the source of the sound, and I looked everywhere. This had gone on for several months. Something, clearly, was making that sound. It took me an hour, but by sitting in various places and using a flashlight, I finally discovered a leaf hanging on a braided thread of cobweb tapping on a metal door. I got back to sleep then woke just at dawn. Overcast, cold, but it hadn't snowed yet and I jumped at the chance to get to town. I may have speeded, and I was certainly a complete fright, uncombed, rather dirty, truth be known; with a ratty sweatshirt and rubber boots. One of the perks of living in an extremely rural area, is that no one seems to notice if you look completely out of sorts. I got everything I needed, plus a few other things (a couple of sweet potatoes, some vegetable chips, a stinky cheese on sale, a bar of chocolate) and got back to the ridge as quickly as possible. As soon as I get unloaded it starts snowing, then it starts snowing hard, and I feel like I've pulled off a magic trick. I can dip into my back-up bottle of whiskey because a have a new back-up bottle. I stopped at the Bridge Street Carry-Out to get an extra package of cigaret papers, and the lady there knew exactly what I wanted, we talked briefly about the weather. She recommended that I get my ass home. Fucking wind, on the way home, I fought for control. I'm sure I'll lose power and phone, so I get out an oil lamp and some candles. The power is back on now, maybe four hours off; I just read, in the failing light, adding candles as the darkness thickened. The wind is howling up a gale. I'm going to go curl up on the sofa. It's ferocious outside, with the blowing snow; the last time I went out to pee, was painful. I went into survival mode, unfortunately, I fell asleep, woke at three in the morning and the house was frigid. Zero outside. Got up and put on a lot of clothes, then built a fire and stayed up to feed it. A fortified mug of chicken broth, some chocolate, and I curled up on the sofa, under my heaviest blanket, and reread some Annie Proulx stories. Not a day to be out and about. It's beautiful and the birds are all puffed up like crazy, and the harsh sunlight sublimates the snow, but not a day for a walk. I was perfecting my mumble today, as I edited myself. For the most part I don't change much, but little changes can be difficult. The oven was hot, so I roasted a cubed sweet potato, with red pepper chunks and small whole onions; a dipping sauce of very good balsamic. I had to eat the onions with a spoon, because I couldn't spear the damned things with a fork, or if I did spear them, they squirted apart, but I have to say that charred small onions are a treat. I get them canned, at Big Lots, and drain them as well as possible, but they always hold a lot of moisture and they are best eaten with a spoon, in a single bite, with the mouth closed. The last of he fried rice, it's been hanging around for a few days and the starch is fully developed; what I like to do is form a hollow, with the back of a spoon, and poach an egg in there, the egg yolk being the mother of all sauces.