Perfect Pitch

Foiled. Got my act together, list in pocket, laundry and detergent in the Jeep. The laundromat was closed, getting the floor redone, so I spent some time at the library, then went and had soup and a beer at the pub. Lively chat with Justin. He's a funny guy. He's always in such a good mood that he makes everyone around him seem like garrulous bastards. He wants to come out with his two band mates. He'd bragged on my cooking. Kroger wasn't crowded, and I remembered a couple of things that weren't on the list, light bulbs, and a pound of Kosher salt because I needed to clean some cast iron cookware. Jesse, at the liquor store in Kroger, wants to come out on Sunday, so he can test his vehicle against the driveway, and I tell him to bring what he wants to drink. I topped up my potable water supply, and because it was on sale, backed up my back-up coffee supply. It took several trips to bring in the groceries, I'd stopped at the Dairy Bar for onion rings and a small shake, there was an armload of books, several gallons of water, back-up whiskey and tobacco. I'll go back into town, to get the laundry done, it's best to start winter with everything clean, and I need a new package of three mouse traps, because the damned things break. Things with springs often break, and you either have to know how to repair them, or know someone who does, and be willing to trade in kind. Got a fire going and roasted some vegetables, fried some thick-sliced bacon. That Treatise, "Pork Fat And The Beginning of Democracy" was meant as a joke. I had been thinking about rendering and cracklings, rereading that section of Moby-Dick about the try-pots, and also, I had found a quart of lard that was several years old but seemed to still be fine. It was sealed and still tasted sweet, so I fried some potatoes, and they were great, bursting with flavor. I turned a deal with one of the meat persons at Kroger, and I now have a good supply of pork fat. Crackling corn-bread could make a grown man cry. The wind woke me, and the scattering of leaves, a thousand fleet animals or just a natural sound. The surface is so dry leaves skitter. Underneath, of course, is the rotted depth of ages. Damp and dank and smelling of moldy cheese.