On Polenta

Enough left-over grits to make two polenta patties. Caramelized an onion and some peppers, topped with some hot-pepper chutney. A cheap but decent Zinfandel. A nice quiet evening. The new Salman Rushdie at the library, another Elmore Leonard, the new John Irving (though I skipped several of his recent books), and another book about bronze. Went to town, to chat with TR for an hour, and to see some new paintings at the museum, Todd Reynolds, our local favorite, and Fatima, doing some interesting portraits. Stopped at Kroger and bought a few things, a smoked jowl, some fruit; on the way home stopped at B's and he took a break from rolling rounds of firewood down the hill beside the barn. Handed me a beer, and we talked about books for an hour. He loaned me two, one of them Girty, by Richard Taylor, which I'm especially looking forward to, real events fictionalized, and in this case the actual events are also documented in a history that should be available locally. In so far as history might be accurate. The fiction might be more accurate, the past at two removes. Edward Gorey told me once that he read everything as fiction. A good rule. In praise of John Thorne, I have to say, he is the very best food writer around, keeps it simple, and takes it right out into what you might do with a specific dish. His recipe for a sandwich of refried sausage casings is not only hysterical but quite good. I eat cleaned and washed and boiled and fried intestines, it doesn't mean I'm not a nice person. It's interesting that when I get off the ridge, the logistics involved, deciding to go, cleaning up a bit, making a list, gathering books; and then the physical act of driving and talking with people, saying things at the library or the check-out line, visiting with friends; then getting back home, I'm exhausted. Also starving, so after I start a fire, I scramble eggs on top of fried potatoes and sausage. I have five books I want to read, and the only question is the order. I'll read them all in the next five days. It's funny I would even know the numbers on this, but someone asked me, and I said, of course, I'll get back to you. The library keeps a record, I note what comes in the mail, I know what I buy. It becomes a habit. Over a ten year period this number was 1.1 books per day. Including laundry and occasionally using a bathroom in town I use about two gallon of water a day. When I start keeping track of something it just becomes routine. The number of orange cars (which is on the increase), or the number of fat people that are actually wider than their shopping carts. You should never be wider than your shopping cart. Space is expensive in a super-market, so the aisles are just wide enough for two carts to pass, an extremely fat person can actually block an aisle. I had to U-turn, detour around the coffee aisle, go through the dry cereal, and come in from the other direction in order to get my Black Silk coffee, because a large person was checking their list. Gave me time to check out the seafood section where I found some lovely scallops on sale. I like these lightly seared, with lime juice, usually, but these were so large, I cut them into quarters, browned them in butter and served them on wide egg noodles. The little demon on my shoulder said I was cheating, dumb little fucker, confused appearance with intent. I look like a hick, sound like one when I put my mind to it; if you wear Carhartt bib overalls, you can be accepted as part of the fold. A sweat stained John Deere hat admits you to the inner circle. Doesn't actually mean I am a hick, whatever that is. B said that Ronnie had made some hominy and I'm anxious to try some of that. Succotash. A Seneca or Shawnee word for 'good dinner' or more likely a euphemism for something involving a sheep or goat. Slaking corn in ashes isn't that far of a reach, when you consider the early kitchen. A corner of the cave. About 40,000 years ago we discovered that if you left a hole, for the smoke to get out, you could sleep through the night. About that same time we discovered ham. Salt, Jesus, I've been reading about salt for weeks. It's the only mineral we eat directly. It draws out moisture. That first dude, that smoked a salt-cured ham should be awarded a Nobel Prize, Big Head White as far as I'm concerned. I had a couple of pieces of his ham, late one night, we were following his hounds, and it was the best cured meat I'd ever eaten, a crust of bread and a mustard sauce that was perfect, maybe a hint of horseradish, and a salad that was mostly wild greens, watercress, and dandelion tops that I harvest from under the leaf-litter.