Logistics

The hills and hollows are wrapped in green, a beautiful rolling landscape. I had several things to do in town, and I did some of them. Got to the library, got to the bank for the refrigerator cash, stopped at the pub and had some hummus on pita slices and a pint. Cory had been saving a half shot of single malt for me, the corner of the bottle; TR came in starved, ate a large lunch, and said he was still hungry. I wanted some meat, so when I stopped to get whiskey I bought a small bacon wrapped fillet, discounted, and two pair of frozen frog legs ($2.45), which should get me through for a couple of days. I want to have the frog legs with polenta (hush-puppies in another form), but they're frozen, and I can put them off for a day or two, so I cook the steak and potatoes. I nuke a big russet, 10 minutes, then I can slice off rounds and fry them fairly quickly, with eggs, or meat, it doesn't matter what, and I've always got one in the fridge. I recommend squirreling away pre-cooked russet potatoes. Whatever might provide the most direct route to a plate of home-fries with an egg on top, a piece of toast with a great Blood Orange marmalade. We all have a rating system, it's always in play. I've done a couple of things well, no more than that; I've reinvented the hinge seventeen times, but they don't give an award for that; and still, when I swing myself upright, I feel integrated into a natural world. That sounds cocky but it's true. Recently I've been keeping track of the Whip-O-Wills. Don't get me started. All the running around and planning had gotten me a little anxious, so I took a day off to read. Much cooler, a very pleasant, afternoon, enough morels for dinner, no disturbances. A lovely omelet, morels and goat cheese; some leftover steak and bacon. I had barely cooked the mushrooms in butter, and the goat cheese has a low melting point, so after I carefully flipped and slid it onto my plate, it leaked an excellent liquid. I do love mopping up a meal with a piece of toast, a biscuit, or the last cornbread-stick. It's like a secret handshake, when you see someone deftly mop the last smear from a plate, you know you're in good company.