Staying Warm

Now that the floor is insulated with high-density foam and I wear a cashmere undershirt life is different. The last two winters were hard, brutal even, but I'm stubborn, and don't easily admit defeat. This winter looks to be somewhat less stressful. I did forget a new snow shovel and back-up batteries for my head lamp, but I'll get out again within the next couple of weeks. The ground isn't cold enough for the snow to stick. This week's oysters I chopped into a stuffing for pounded pork tenderloins, mock enchiladas, with cornbread on the side; it was very good. A famous person asked me if I always ate that well, and I told them no, I usually ate left-overs with an egg on top. Hash puddled with a poached egg. I make this one cup of cornmeal bread fairly often; in a six-inch skillet it's a cake, in a ten-inch skillet it's a pone. On a lark I cut some white tee-shirt squares, to cover the mouse bodies, death cloths, and I had barely set the new traps and turned off the light before all hell broke lose. My freezer looks like a morgue. The crows, who are probably the intelligence behind this, indicate a preference for spicy brown mustard. I have a couple of packages of Brussels Sprouts, the produce guy gives them to me, and I love cooking these with pasta and butter. Up most of the night, so slept in, completely overcast, little snow showers, easy enough to roll over and sleep an extra hour, but by then the house is quite cold, so I get up and build a fire, then doze off again. Breakfast is mock enchilada omelet with corn bread and honey. Set about researching the Newport Tower, which was found by Verrazano in 1524. It's pretty amazing, a circular tower, twenty foot diameter, twenty feet tall with eight very nice arched doorways, excellent stone work. Pesky dating problem. Mid day I have one of my favorite sandwiches, a can of sardines on toast with a large slice of onion and hot tea. Work on punctuation for a couple of hours. Reread The Riddle Of The Sands, took a small walk. The carnage continues with the mice. The new traps are wonderfully successful, the springs are strong and fast, and I can't let these little fuckers get into my food. I have to get into town once more before Thanksgiving. I'll just have whatever's on sale, maybe a butter-flied pork tenderloin stuffed with chutney. Holidays alone, I usually take a long walk, maybe a bottle of wine while I'm cooking and eating, and I'll end up listening to the Cello Suites. It's supposed to warm a bit, which would be good, it's in the teens now and that seems premature. The house is warm, burning knots like lumps of coal, and I have my small radiant electric heater over where I sit. I'm so comfortable I almost feel guilty. Joel feels that I need to move further south, and he's probably correct; the problem is that this place is paid for, and it's cheap to live here, I can't give it up for a whole new set of unknowns. And I'm comfortable, for god's sake, I carry in a few armloads of wood, and read a book. It's as good a slice of reality as any other. Joel and I both laugh. We're both still standing, which is amazing, when you think about it.