At It

Interesting day. I started off thinking about zip codes. My mailing address is Blue Creek, Ohio, but I don't even remotely live in Blue Creek, it's a post office distinction, my mail comes out of Blue Creek. Zip (zone improvement plan) codes designate what the mail service dictates. I was pretty deep into thinking about this, how it was affected by various factors, when I heard a car. I could tell right away it was police, unmarked car, but those whip antennas. B had said he was surprised the constabulary hadn't talked with me about the petty thief down the road that's wanted for several different things, including selling some logs from the State Forest. It was a detective from the State Police, a nice guy, Alex, and while I made us a cup of coffee he looked around. He looked at the stairs for about ten minutes, and I told him that yes, I'd built them and Froggy Taylor had cut the wood. Then he said he'd never seen so many books in his life, he admired the cookstove, actually, he seemed to notice everything. Down to business, he sat on the sofa and I sat in my desk chair. He wanted to know what I knew about John and family, so I told him what I knew, which was not much except that he'd probably robbed me, among his other minor felonies. Petty thieves that steal from the poor are in the innermost circle of hell. Alex wanted to know what I did, or had done, so I gave him the short version. We had a wee dram and talked about crime out in the country. He said he'd like to come out socially and bring his wife. I invited them to dinner, bring a bottle of Irish, give me a call first, Sundays are good for me. I've had the stove cranking and I'll need to let it cool down a bit, to dump ashes and coals. I have a procedure for this, then I stoke the fire again and start another cycle. Below ten degrees I drop any pretense of doing anything other than tending the fire, eating, and sleeping in shifts. I read, of course, and write when I have electricity. When I read and write, I don't feel the cold, it just doesn't matter, later, my toes and fingers are frozen, but I might have two perfectly fine sentences with one questionable comma. My kind of town. Cold, seriously frigid. I went out just before dark and got another armload of wood. Figure to nap early and get up around two to stoke the fire. I nuked a large russet potato, then fried slices in butter. I dampened the tenderloin with a molasses and balsamic glaze and rolled it in crushed peppers. The oven is very hot and I have to open the door a bit to keep it at 450 degrees. Cast iron skillet with peanut oil (high smoke point) and I have the pan of potatoes, topped with Gorgonzola and chopped black olives ready to go. Twenty minutes for the meat, and while it rests melt the cheese on the potatoes. A simple pan gravy, wine, drippings, butter at the end. Excellent. The potatoes are amazing. Surprisingly warm near the stove, where I eat at the island. Reading an interesting book, the history of timekeeping. Keeping track. I know I want to cook the tenderloin for twenty minutes (a completely artificial construct) and I can use sand in an hour-glass or a digital timer to remind me of duration,, so I don't burn the roast; but the bastion of my time-factoring is sun-rise and sun-set, both of which change every day. At some point (it was train schedules) we became compulsive about this. Plugging a 'regular' work-day into what was actually an ever-changing field. Sidebar into Daylight Savings Time. My beach ball globe has time zones. New Year's Eve, I had the radio on for a while, and it was already then, now. There are places in the world where you could live in one day and work in another. I'm sure someone is making money off that. I'll get another great meal out of this, then a hash, which will certainly be fine. The charred crust of this, molasses, balsamic, and peppers, is incredible.