Realism

Felt like a character in a movie all day. Warm enough in the house to let the fire go out. Last time for days, projected highs in the teens, nights dipping to zero, so I wanted to get the stove cleaned out. Nice walk, identifying tracks and imagining scenarios. Just below freezing, so I walked with my mop-handle staff, and I had my small pack, with water, some trail-mix, magnifying glass, and the all important etha-foam pad that allows me to sit on frozen stumps without freezing my ass. I had my dozen oysters (16) and they were all large, so I steamed them in clam juice to open, chopped them, added some minced onion and bread crumbs, dampened them with strained cooking liquid, topped with just a bit of grated cheese, and ran them through a very hot oven. I had these with sweet gherkins, black olives, and saltine crackers, and let the record show that they were very good. I need to make the casserole and split kindling tomorrow. Spitting snow, temps are falling. The woods are bleak. If I wasn't in such a good mood I'd be depressed. Linda and Glenn call, after two weeks in Mexico, back in Minnesota where it was ten below. Thermal shock. I read another Lescroart novel, they're long, complex, and well written, then checked some facts in a piece I was editing, because they seemed suspect. The facts were correct, I try to stay close to the truth. I couldn't care more than I do. In the movie, our character, bent and withered like a Japanese poet, starts a small fire, to heat water for tea. Dung actually burns very hot, though quickly. Buffalo-chip fired pizza ovens don't seem like an alternative. Basho: usually hateful / yet the crow too / in this dawn snow. Elmore Leonard, George V. Higgens, where dialog drives the action.