Incoming

Break in the snow, the precursor storm, just a couple of inches, Winter Storm Warning for Friday and Saturday. Two trips to the woodshed and I replace the kindling and starter sticks on the warming rack. Very dry pre-heated kindling is a real boon in the fire starting business. I let the fire go out again, not on purpose, and it takes until noon to get the house warmish again. I read my weekly Elmore Leonard and eat left-overs over by the stove, then tidy up a bit. The house is a mess. Picked up another Margaret Visser book on dining habits at the Goodwill, she's an academic, but it's interesting stuff. Most things were formalized at table, because there were knives present and an underlying sense of violence. Jana sent a couple of interesting recipes for the huge hunk of beef, but I'm leaning toward cooking it in the smoker with a fatty pork roast on the shelf above; still, I think I'll use the mole sauce she recommends, and several pounds of chilies. One of the great things about freezing and refrigeration is that you don't have to brine everything. A partial cure and a light smoke, and you can cut out a lot of the salt. Think about salt and history. I have to get this paragraph off today as they've warned, on the radio, that those of us out in the county WILL lose power and phone service. Which means they're expecting wet snow. Forecast now is for 18 to 24 inches, but as the ridge is 1,000 feet higher than town, I could expect more than that. Every hour I go outside and bring in another armload of the largest pieces of wood that will fit in the stove. I have to turn the radio off when they start talking about Sarah Palin in Donald Trump's cabinet. I still have left-overs, but I'm going to cook the pot of beans tomorrow. I've managed to forget to buy batteries but my headlamp is still working, I have candles, and an oil lamp with tricked-out mirrors. The power people must be expecting havoc, because they've brought in hundreds of extra repair men. It's twenty degrees now, but it's supposed to climb to thirty tomorrow, and they fear the mother of all ice-storms. I don't see how I could be any better prepared. I have a sink full of dirty dishes, that I plan to wash tomorrow, when I'll want to be near the stove anyway, and I need to wash out some underwear. Get out the winter boots, insulated Red-Wings, and water-proof the seams, make sure there's a walking stick by the door, oil my work-gloves. Haul water, chop wood; it's exhausting, to stay alive. Last night I ate dinner twice, crawled into my mummy bag but still woke up to stoke the fire, then again just at dawn. I needed to dump the ash bucket, which meant composting, so I made my morning coffee, and planned my strategy. I planned to curl up, in my bathrobe, with a wee dram and a good book. What makes a pearl? A piece of crap, every snowflake or raindrop. There's only so much water and it re-condenses as needed. Fog, and such.