Illogical Extremes

The best fried potatoes I've ever eaten, and they were a matter of laziness and happenstance. I'd pounded then marinated that cheap round steak in chipotle and adobo, fried it in butter. I'd just stashed the skillet in the oven. I wanted eggs and potatoes and I pulled that skillet out (it should have been wiped and re-oiled) added a large pat of butter and fried a steamed russet. There's not anything to compare it with. I fry great potatoes anyway, because I don't mind taking the time, but these, with crusted bits of smoked peppers, and the emulsion of adobo and butter. I have some of them left, for a breakfast sandwich. There are times when I can't believe how simple I am, that I could be looking forward to a fried potato fold-over sandwich with mayo, as though it were a kind of reward for doing something. A very good conversation with Samara, and I was thrilled that she and Scott had talked about living here, after I'm gone. I told her to become familiar with the book trade. Scott could teach theater at the college. There are obstacles: access, no running water, no central heat, bears. Still, they could do it. I've done it for fifteen years and there'd be two of them. I'd just curled up to sleep for a couple of hours when all hell broke loose outside. Caterwauling. I had to shoot a couple of marbles with my sling-shot to disperse them. Rival packs of dogs. Which woke me up, so I got a drink and rolled a smoke, sat in the dark and considered my failures. I live alone, don't have a boat, and only eat oysters once a week. What's germane? I hit the alpha-male in the ass with a marble, at fifty feet I'm deadly with a sling-shot, and the pack scattered. Completely lost myself, meant to go to town, but decided I didn't need to go, hauled some brush, read, fried some more potatoes. I was completely zoned out, at the island, eating egg yolk and the last of the potatoes, smearing any last anything up with a last piece of toast, when I realized I hadn't been off the ridge for five days. I hadn't even noticed. Bodes well for the winter. As long as I can eat and read. A can of bean and bacon soup, diluted with just enough water to clean the can, and a piece of cornbread, seems like a pretty good meal. Rice with whatever's left over is fine. A fried oyster burrito, in a bed of watercress, with a mango salsa, would be a good thing. Even tinned oysters fry all right for a sandwich. I was in Kansas once, or Nebraska, and someone asked me why I carried cans of sardines and tuna fish, certain varieties of hash. I blew it off as habit.