Morning Light

The fog and dew rise from the hollows. Serene and very quiet, a misty rain all night has the birds and bugs silent. Supposed to get rain all weekend, remnants of a Gulf storm, and I figure it's as dry as it will be for several days. I could get by without the extra trip to town, but a small steak would be nice. There's an Amish family that sets up shop at the Farmer's Market every day. They mostly sell vegetables and fruit they've bought wholesale, but they have some pretty good tomatoes and I was craving a BLT. Also, the patriarch, who dresses like a normal farmer, has two daughters, and they have to dress in silly outfits, and I find the whole scene charming. The young girls look like miniature nuns, and the very idea that Amish folk would look Catholic amuses me. I flirt with them and they flirt back, knowing what sells tomatoes, stop quickly at the pub for a cup of soup and a pint, quick stop at Kroger for a steak, a pound of thick-sliced bacon, and some lettuce, and got home just before the bottom dropped out. Picked the first ripe blackberries and ate a bowl of them with plain yogurt, a sprinkle of brown sugar. I'll be digging their seeds out from between my teeth for the next couple of weeks. I'd like to can seven quarts (my canner takes seven quart jars) for use in hot pepper marinades next winter. I'm still pissed my ex-wife took the pressure canner. Two cups of berries in a jar, a tablespoon of sugar, fill with boiling water and process for twenty minutes. I like the juice, but then I like almost all juices, and the fruit makes a fine tart in February. Also, the marinade, which B discovered with a leg of lamb many years ago. Fruit and chilies is a great combination. I make a venison stew, with plums, cranberries, and hot peppers; and another stew, with lamb, peaches, watercress, and chipotle, both of which will make you drool for several hours. Ignoring the trend toward insipid pale dishwater, I usually pair these with an old vine Zinfandel. It rains and drips all night. I get up, before dawn, to read and make some notes. Fry a few slices of steamed Russet potato, an egg on top, a piece of whole-grain toast with tangerine marmalade. I'm thinking about getting one of those jackets with leather patches and cultivating an English accent. Mad Tom, Duke of Baloney. The Footer King, we called him, a Laird without a clue. But as is more often the case, I wear scrubs, specifically try and not make waves, attempt to either surf over or chose to not notice the dead and dying between here and there. I'm cool with denial, I see it all the time, and I've learned to live with it. A fried potato sandwich, with a slice of raw onion, might be the best that we can do.