Slightly Pissed

Wind-surfing on commas that might be suspect, on exact words, layers deep into consideration of my meager box of misshapen pearls. I don't argue for this life, when I think about it, it's actually stupid. Knowingly being placed in a difficult situation. Oh, I have an idea, why don't you do it with one hand tied behind your back? And I certainly don't claim anything positive about my lifestyle. I'd stopped down at the print-shop, I often stop there and roll a cigaret, and I was thinking about how we follow the path we choose. Baked beans on toast is an easy meal, and in the larder of solo around-the-world sails, it figures prominently. I've studied the manifests. Beans on toast is a mainstay, which leads to a consideration of rigging, which was always Boston harbor; you built the boat and they rigged it in Boston. You don't want to even imagine the rigging involved. Ten thousand ropes and all of them with different names. On the USS Constitution, a crew of 300, you were paid twice as much if you knew what each rope actually did. The crew on a nuclear carrier, stationed in the Persia Gulf for six months of sea duty, numbers 3,000, and I can't wrap my head around feeding that many people. I got to town, a few more books at the library, then a stop at the pub, where I picked up the giant pot roast, and the guys in the kitchen insisted I take a second one, so I end up with 30 pounds of meat, frozen rock hard, and Justin buys me a beer. Stop at Kroger for whiskey and back-up supplies. Feeling quite accomplished with the day, I stopped at B's, to get the meat in the freezer and he grins, hefting the haul. It's a strange full-circle, because Jenny's husband, Scott, had ordered this very meat for the Garage Cafe, now closed, just before he parted ways, because the owner was impossible to work with, and Cory, at the pub, needed to get it out of his freezer, because they had no way to cook it, so he gave it to me, and I thought, immediately, about B's Sunday family dinner. As it happens B calls Scott, and Scott agrees to cook one of said same roasts for the family feed. Which will leave another roast, slightly smaller, that B and I agree to cook together for yet another meal for a group of people yet to be specified. Probably the fringe people, ourselves included, who could use a hearty meal. B needed a break, from hauling wood, his wood pile is impressive by any standard, and these frozen slabs of meat are impressive, even by our standards, so we had a cup of coffee and talked about happenstance for an hour. I took all of his books back, cleared my slate of anything left to do, keep it simple, haul wood and carry water. My girls called, they were together, just getting home to Denver from the holiday at grandpa's house, so I talked with Rhea for the first time in months. Samara and I talk fairly often, every couple of weeks, and it was nice to get updated on both of them. They both appreciate my sense of humor, if only because they've adjusted to it over the years. I'll try and get out there, in the spring. Samara's mate is also Scott and also a chef and he had confided to her that he would let me cook in their kitchen. That we could cook together. One thing the two Scott's hold in common is an incredible ability to chop things. I thought I was pretty good at this, but I'm in the minor leagues. Samara's Scott sent me a knife-sharpener. I had to laugh, but I took his point, sharp knives are safer. I can hear Paula Poundstone objecting in the background, wondering why anyone would fund a research project that was based on how sharp a knife was. If the going got tough she'd just use a cleaver, failing that, an electric chainsaw, or some yard implement. A snow-blower or a stump-grinder. Later, wrapped in a stadium blanket, drinking a wee dram neat, and rolling a smoke, I wondered if any of it made any difference. I won't be around to suffer the consequence. I'm deep into this, my world, and how small it is, in the cosmos. Mostly I try to stay to myself. The deer no longer fear me.