Tullamore Dew

Barnhart and his son Alan were up in the late afternoon with goodies. The Tullamore, stinky cheese, a wonderful Hungarian sausage, crackers, and a huge book of recipes with great photography. Probably spend tomorrow with the book. Mike's Mom sent it, and it is incredibly lavish and so large it has to remain flat. Glad I got out this morning, a nice aimless walk, because after the guys left it started raining a bit. Cold rain. I ate salami and cheese, with crackers and a few other things, reading, with a dram of Irish, at my desk. Eight to ten hours a day, that's where I am. I walk around, I go outside, maybe I cook something. I made very simple egg noodles, rolled out the dough with piece of closet rod, which has been my rolling-pin for twenty years, sliced it into strips, cooked it (quickly) and served with browned butter. It was great. You can't miss with this. I do a version with reconstituted jerky and greens that is a great main course, but I love it as a side with a game dish. The Gorgonzola brought that to mind because Marilyn used to make a cheese sauce for noodles that absolutely smelled like dirty sneakers. It's amazing the way smell brings memory. It just happens, no mediation, your Grandfather's hat or your Grandmother's kitchen. All the senses, actually, the way they can rivet us in memory. The crows were back and I wondered where they've been. I micro-waved a couple of mice for them, and they gave me a raft of shit. I don't know why I continue this relationship. I listened to a couple of the Cello Suites, with rain drops on the roof dripping an off beat, and read a long convoluted novel, Gibson, and that made me think about several dozen things. Flitting things, but I was chilly, for one, so I went over to make a fire, go through the entire ritual, every time, being very careful. Looking around, while I'm starting a fire, I usually assemble the components for the next fire, a kit, as it were, because I have to hang around the stove to adjust the dampers until a serious fire is going. Once I've put on a big log, and damped the stove down, I can go to sleep, run some errands, split some wood; no longer need to watch the fire and it is perfectly safe, which is a good thing, since I live in a wooden house that's stuffed with books. New Year's Eve, so I go ahead and cook a pot of Black-Eyed Peas, with smoked jowl and onions, cook some rice, make a pone of cornbread. I'll eat it tomorrow, as is traditional, but I'll also eat it tonight. I might venture into town on Monday, and get there fairly early because there should be some discounted lamb. Nothing on the agenda until then but just staying off the roads. Out here in the county (especially on Forest Service roads) the good old boys tend to drive aggressively. They'll probably have sobriety check points on the major roads, but if you learned to drive on them, you can get just about anyplace on Forest Service roads. Another aimless walk, I'm getting good at these, and looked at and dissected several oak galls. I always taste them, the trapped liquid, with the tip of my tongue, because some of them are very sweet. Some of them aren't, but you can spit, take a sip from the small flask of apple brandy, and move on to the next gall. When I get home the peas are done, and I eat a bowl with rice and a wedge of cornbread that I split and toast with butter. The janitor again, Janus, January, looking both fore and aft. I did spend the day with this lovely book of recipes. A couple of the oyster appetizers sounded very good. I had the book open on the island, while I was caramelizing a large skillet of red peppers and onions. No plan for the vegetables, just that the stove was going. I could make a pasta sauce or a soup, a sauce for game birds, or a side dish for venison medallions. Right now, I'm going to pound some veal chops, and roll them into birds.