Wind Blown

Lovely sunrise, lovely day, completely clear. Eat some breakfast, and get outside. I amuse myself for several hours, walking about, looking at things. Raked the leaf cover from a couple of spots where the first morels appear, scratched the ground a little, then raked a pile of leaves to use on the compost heap. The wind picked up all day, sustained at 25 mph, gusts to 40, and I finally had to go back inside when little particles of organic crap kept getting in my eyes. I spent a while looking for my safety glasses, but I can't find them. I always need them at this time of year and I thought I'm left them in the basket where I keep specific-use items (gaiters, mufflers, face-masks, extreme headgear) that I keep near the back door. I'll have to wash my hair tomorrow. That grainy crap is awful. The wind at night can be a restful murmur, and it is tonight, a susurration I get sometimes from Nordic symphonies. The three crows were by today, I had mice and the outhouse roof was free of snow, they seemed satisfied. Big gust of wind shakes the house. I make a note to look up 'mote' and have the feeling that could take a while. The house shakes again and I shut down. Trees are bound to fall. Instead of reading with the headlamp, having a potential headache, I just take a nap. The quiet wakes me, the power is still on. I scramble a couple of eggs, toast and hot pepper jam from Montana. I scramble eggs very gently, and find it difficult to do if anyone else is in the house, because I talk to them, add yogurt or cream at the end, and eat them with buttered toast points. Sometimes I scrape everything into a bowl of re-fried grits. Any leftover salsa is good. Pan-drippings, sausage gravy, chutney, almost anything is good on top. Finally did lose power, no idea what time it was, but very dark and heavy rain again. I just wrapped up in a blanket and went to sleep on the sofa, when I woke up again, it's light out, sort of, still raining, still no power. Eat half a leftover grilled cheese sandwich and a can of orange segments, make some notes that I won't be able to read later, and read a great piece about bar food. Morning trip to the outhouse and there are a couple of terrible looking feral dogs sleeping inside, one of them makes a move on me and I swat it away rather strongly with my mop-handle walking stick. This last pork-fried rice was particularly good, the pork marinated forever, while I was sick, and then I spent some extra time caramelizing the onions and peppers. American rice is becoming very interesting, some of the best I've ever eaten. I used a robust nutty rice for this, also, I caramelized the vegetables in the skillet where I'd been storing pork fat since the Crackling Insurrection. Scraped up all those brown bits, then cooked the pork, very hot, in same skillet, then threw everything together. Excellent dish. I just ate right out of the pan, so it stayed hot, then put it out on the front porch. I'd better try and get to town, colder temps and more snow in the forecast, best get out to the woodshed, bring some wood inside. It's getting old, but it's almost over. I saw green ferns at the edge of the driveway, other greens and those miniature flowers are beginning to show up in the median. March was awful last year, cold and snow storms, but it's usually just a time of rough transitions, nothing lasts for more than a few days. I can already smell the rotting leaves. It's officially no longer the dead of winter. The buds give it away, look at the red maple, I actually blanch poplar buds and have them with browned butter. I was reading about using a goose neck as a sausage casing and I got completely lost in what I might stuff it with. Oysters, bread crumbs and spinach; chorico, chick-peas and kale; a mixture of ground veal and wild game. I never once think of a swan's neck stuffed with truffles. Read more...

In Isolation

Weak as a kitten, but otherwise feeling fine. Truth be told that on another thaw day I wasn't going to do much anyway and the kitchen can wait until tomorrow. I'd read an article in the London Review, then shuffle over to get a book, make a mug of tea, mumble imprecations. A very low-key day. Dictionaries are good on days like this. You start with a word like palliative and let it take you where it will. I don't take sick days often, but I'm sure they were mentioned in the contract when I signed on to be a hermit. I'm not a hermit, actually, more a recluse, or just a private person. I used to be able to write in a noisy house, or a coffee shop, but anymore I require isolation and quiet. Drizzle all day, and the snow is gone, the temps dip below freezing. The Late Winter Drudge. The house is a mess, I need to do my laundry, and I need to address the composting toilet, which I've ignored all winter. Dump the bottom drawer, rotate the drum, re-compost the refuse with ashes and kitchen waste. Supposed to be sixty degrees tomorrow. I went out to check the footing and it's not too bad. I could have gotten out and back in but I didn't need anything. There's a list, there's always a list, but nothing critical. I sliced the loin chops and put them in a bowl with balsamic vinegar, soy sauce, minced onion, a secret dried green pepper powder made in New Mexico, and enough olive oil to put a film on top. I go ahead and make a saffron rice, for the pork fried rice, it's better if the rice is left-over, the starches have fully developed. All I have to do is caramelize an onion and a red pepper, sear the meat, and by my estimation, I'll have four to six meals. I'd saved the record of this, because I knew I'd want to know, and it cost a little over eight dollars. Well within my budget. I can eat grits for breakfast, fruit and cheese for lunch, and still slip in at three dollars a day. Taj on the radio, that slack blues guitar, get a wee dram and close my eyes. Excellent. Some problems ahead with the driveway where erosion has eaten at the inside track and it's actually lower than the grader ditch for a couple of hundred feet. Has to be dug out, and I'm not going to do it, I'll pay Ryan or someone with a younger back. You dig out the fines into the inside tire-track, and build a levee to control the water, Hydrology 101. It seldom works, water is impossible to control, but if you get the water to flush the channel, it might work for a while. When it clogs all bets are off, and it will clog, a stick, some leaves, a natural dam, the water diverts. You can't control this. A few years ago, when I walked the driveway almost every day, I'd poke at little obstructions with my walking stick, take off my gloves and remove a wad of leaves, now I mostly sit alone and read, and I don't walk the driveway that often. If I stick to the logging roads up top, there's not so much up and downing. Finished the 1936 Oregon novel Sarie sent and I highly recommend it. Honey in the Horn. Regionalism, in all the best sense, paying attention to detail, hundreds of connections with other writers writing from/in the natural world. Makes me think about Barry Lopez, so I reread some of his essays. I do have to deal with shit and compost, and then I'll have to clean up. Supposed to be warm tomorrow, and I'll try not to spend the whole day in the sun, reading London Reviews, for which thank God and B, they got me through my stomach upset. I could, technically, go to town, but the liquor department at Kroger is closed on Sunday, and Monday is forecast clear, so I'll spend some time trying to get back into rhythm, go to town on Monday, unless the forecast is still good for Tuesday, in which case I'd put off the trip for another day. Nice to be able to just hole up for a couple of days, eat canned peaches and lick your wounds. Read more...

Creature Comforts

Before I put on the new slippers, I soaked my feet in salt water, and trimmed my toenails, rubbed on udder balm, and dried before a good fire. This is a luxury. Sheepskin lined moccasins are a treat I never expected. It's one of those situations where the worst thing (cold feet) becomes one of the best things. If your feet are warm, life is easier. A simple equation. I had a piece of toast, with peanut butter and seedless blackberry jam. And promptly threw up for six hours, everything down to clear liquid; felt fine, just couldn't hold anything. Finally held down water at 4 in the afternoon. Power goes out, I never checked the phone, during a thundering cloud burst, inches of rain in a two hour period. I was exhausted, from vomiting, so I took a nap. Woke when the lights came on. Rain turning to snow tomorrow and much colder. Turn off the lights and go to sleep, slept for ten hours. Couple of inches of new snow. My gut feels better, but I'm still a bit sore. I make a bland potato soup with chicken broth, to see if I can hold something down. Starts snowing again. Some herbal tea with honey, a few spoonfuls of soup, a couple of saltines, to be repeated. Settle in at my desk chair with a pile of London Reviews. The gamut of very good writing. I went outside, to sweep snow off the back porch and steps, then kept sweeping a path to the woodshed, until one of those little line-squalls moved in, and I retreated to the house; dusted off the snow inside, because the house needs the moisture, another mug of tea, a little more soup. I need to clean up the kitchen, re-season a couple of skillets, dump ashes, turn the compost and recycle kitchen waste, which should take most of tomorrow. I had gotten pork loin chops, so I need to marinade them, and I have a steak. I hadn't counted on being ill. The snow is such a blanket, and the falling snow, it's incredibly quiet. I bring a final harvested five-gallon bucket of rain water inside, it's mostly slush and quite cold, but I have the heat now to bring it above freezing. When you bring a large lump of cold inside, an armload of wood, a bucket of frozen water, it has an aura of coldness about it, takes a while for it to reach equilibrium. I want to be empathetic and sympathetic, but I was writing and Rodney called, his brother had died, he'd been in Tennessee for a few weeks, and wanted to come over and talk. The last thing I need is to hear a sad story. I told him this was not a good time, that I was in the middle of something, which I had been, what I'm doing matters most to me. I'd already settled in, it was eight at night, and though I know he needed to talk to someone, I didn't want to be that person. Selfish of me, and I feel a little bad about it, but it wasn't a good time. I'm usually a good listener, it's all grist for the mill, but some times you just don't want to be interrupted. Read more...

Safely Home

Something didn't feel right, driving down the driveway, and when I stopped, at the bottom of the hill, to get the mail, I realized I had left both my wallet and my list at the house. Went back up, since I needed both of them. Then to town. The timing has been perfect this month. Two trips to town, when I needed them, and the weather allowed me fair passage. It was a long list, including stops at the library and the Goodwill Bookstore. I get first pour at the pub which means I get a second glass of mostly foam that settles down to a third of a glass of beer. Watched ESPN for my random update of sporting events. The sound is always off (they play Irish music, softly, as background) so I make up the commentary. I amuse the wait-staff with my complete lack of knowledge. Then I go to Kroger, the main thrust of this trip. A huge shop, for me; I'd kept a list of what I'd used from the larder, and I picked up a few extra things. God damned Pistachio nuts, an avocado, some watercress; some remaindered pork loin chops for a pork fried rice, a steak and a sweet potato. Drinking water, whiskey, tobacco and papers. Stopped at B's on the way home and he had a pile of The London Review for me, weeks of reading, I'd gotten books in town. And though B and I agree there is severe weather ahead, we both know it's finite. Leave his place, feeling high, anxious to get home. Loaded with supplies, feeling secure in my accomplishment. Bottom of the hill, there was a car coming the other way, my mail person in her handsome right-wheel drive Jeep, so I waited for her to pass, but she stopped and looked at me strangely, asked if I was waiting for a package, no I said, I was just waiting to get up my driveway. But she did have a package for me. The odds against this are staggering, usually she'd leave a note in the box and I'd have to drive to Blue Creek (my mailing address) to get whatever it was. It's from Montana. I know it has to be from Sarie, a reader via Mac, because I don't know anyone else in Montana. Curious, and a crowning tribute to an interesting day. When I get up to the house, I back in close to the door because there is so much to unload. Maybe ten trips in and out, put things away, rotating the stock, get a drink and roll a smoke. The package was from Sarie, a wonderful pair of house slippers (leather and sheep fleece) to replace my duct-taped current pair, and a copy of the 1936 Pulitzer prize for fiction winner, Honey in the Horn, which I knew about but had never read. A great package for the hermit in his digs. Leaving the ridge for a few hours is always interesting, that there is a world out there, with people in it, and they're all doing things. It's so busy it's disconcerting to me, but it's always interesting. Fragments of conversation, particular physical gestures, sirens, not unlike three crows with a ukulele, in my fantasy, squawking for a micro-waved mouse with Alfredo Sauce. Coming off a James Lee Burke, and the latest Lee Child novels, I'm struck with the importance violence plays, stirs the ancient brain. My sword will shatter yours. All things being equal, where did you buy your shoes? Read more...

Wash Day

I had to shut down last night when serious weather moved in. Heavy rain in sheets, slashing, wind-borne. I sat in the dark, listening to the posts and beams distribute the loading. Quickly harvest enough water for my immediate needs, then go back to sleep for a few hours. Late dawn, steely gray overcast, warm house; still raining, flood watch on the radio. Heat the first round of water and wash a sink full of dishes, then heat a second round of water for me. Strip down for a sponge bath, then wash my hair twice, washing out underwear in the rinse water. I use four gallons of water, which is a large amount for me, but it amounts to most of the wash water I've used in the past week, and I've replenished the entire amount by the end of the day. Between afternoon showers I take a walk and the driveway has firmed. When I get home I collate my lists into a master plan for getting into town and back on the ridge with what I need. Of course the frogs get it wrong again, but they are ever hopeful, and I heard them breeding last night just before the rain. Too early, but their chorus brings a grin to my face, and I wouldn't be surprised to see some green shoots of fern on the protected bank of the driveway. Today, even with the house closed up, and rain on the roof, I can hear the frogs mating. I know there's still serious weather ahead, but after you hear the frogs, the various difficulties become finite. Ground fog moves in, moisture desperately escaping, and I can't see across the hollow; it's so incredibly bleak that by all rights I should be depressed, or at least reflective, but I'm in a great mood: I'm clean, in clean clothes, left-overs for dinner, not many cares. I burn a little desert sage in a bowl, on the cold stove-top (February 21 and no fire) because the house is musky with being closed. Makes me think about camping in Utah, where we always put the fire to bed with sage. It's weird to be so clean, you wash off all of the natural oils and the traumatized skin contracts, an entire different set of itches. Mostly centered in areas that you can't quite reach. I control this with Witch Hazel soaked gauze pads that I manipulate with a bamboo back-scratcher I got at Big Lots for a dollar. A warm day, this deep into February, is a blessing, and I take every advantage. Clean the stove, dump ashes, bring in wood, split kindling. I was reading several of the polar explorers, with special attention to their supplies, also the manifests of whaling ships, heading out for two or three years. Completely fascinating. What Sir Francis needed, to get around the world. At the end of his life Owen Chase squirreled away sea biscuits in his attic. The usual answer, from the Yukon to the Hebrides, is beans on toast. You either grow or trade for the legume, and make bread from grass seeds. Holed up, in southern Ohio, I'm trying to understand that whole transition, grinding seeds into flour. High protein cakes are easier to carry. Pemmican. Cornmeal is subject to rot, but you can store dried corn for a very long time; grind it when you need it. I have to laugh about how I could be clear about anything. Go to the library, stop at Kroger and get some oysters. Read more...

Constant Drip

Incessant dripping woke me before dawn and the wind picked up. The wind will certainly help the mud situation, which is extreme. Dangerous footing, so I stay inside. A large plate of canned sliced potatoes fried in jowl fat, and I had seconds, which is rare for me. Reading about tidal nodes. Key West, for instance; the Caribbean pulling one way and the Atlantic pulling the other, and they cancel out. The wind picks up, and this is good, I need to get to town in the next few days, one more re-supply of the larder, and I have a list of what I've used, will see me through. I don't even actually need a re-supply, but I'm thinking about fresh vegetables and a bar of chocolate; I will need whiskey, tobacco and papers, fresh eggs. By dark most of the snow is gone and the wind is howling. The driveway could be dry tomorrow, certainly by Sunday or Monday, so I'll be able to stock up and get through the last of winter. Even, as I suspect, we'll have another round of severe weather. It won't matter, another pot of soup, the library called with a couple of books, I can always hole up for another couple of weeks. Being alone and reading is something I do very well. Whatever gets you through the night. Jesus, the wind is blowing. I shut down and got out my headlamp. Went out at dawn, to check the footing and it's still fairly awful. The wind died down but it was quite warm, maybe fifty degrees, so I took out a mug of coffee and had a smoke. And there it is, the winter ridge, lovely in its barrenness. The mat of leaves is still damp with melt, the birds are all out, and the squirrels. A slow walk over to the head of the driveway, and I saw that I could get out, but I wasn't sure about the getting back in, so I postponed the trip to town, the weather's supposed to be decent for a couple of days, I might even go to town twice, do my laundry and buy some new underwear. Tomorrow it's supposed to be warmer still, and I need to focus my attention on getting clean, washing my hair, trimming my beard; I look like something cast up by the last storm. One of those catfish that walk from pool to pool. It's acknowledged that I don't give a shit about what I look like, I usually don't know what I look like. I'm always surprised when someone says I look one way or another. Rag-picker, rat catcher, or an actual academic talking about the origin of the fork. My interest is mostly sidereal. Bean soup and cornbread.

Basho:

winter seclusion:
again I'll lean back against
my old post Read more...

Second Symptoms

Listening to the radio to figure out what day it is. Plotting three days into the future when you might bathe and wash your filthy hair. You actually eat a can of Spam. It's finite, it's not the end of the world or anything, it's just a few cold days and some snow. I enjoy designing things in my mind, houses or staircases or showers that don't require doors or curtains, and when I start thinking about the technical problems, I lose track of anything else: time, temperature, the age and bite of dimwit. The same with reading, I can get so involved in a book, that I lose track of everything. A semi-hibernation. Even in that state I can stoke the fire, heat up soup, make a trip to the woodshed. I've made the system as simple as possible, I know my limitations. Move a chair close to the stove, and start rereading Pynchon's Mason And Dixon, which is certainly one of the funniest novels ever. Sitting by the stove I can keep a mug of tea hot, and I make a very nice cream soup with butternut squash, onion, and evaporated milk; melt snow all day, boil a gallon of drinking water, do a sink-full of dishes. At thirty degrees outside, the house is comfortable, so I move over to my desk, make a few notes, try and get a handle on my thinking. No easy task. Being in survival mode does beg some questions. Can you continue to live this way? Why are you living this way? What are the alternatives? I could live the same way in a more temperate climate, but I doubt if I could afford it. Dripping water and many more roof-slides, above freezing tonight and fifty degrees tomorrow. One trip out to the woodshed and the snow is a rotten mess. No desire to slog around in that, so I get an early drink and read an Elmore Leonard novel. I made a simplified version of Shepard's pie with canned beanless chili, chilies, onion, and cheese, topped with instant mashed potatoes and baked. I was reading about the potato, over at the island, several articles about french fries, an interesting piece about Peruvian methods of freeze-drying; before the potato famine the average Irish person was eating several pounds a day. The pie was quite good, in that it was hot and filling. By late afternoon all the trees are stripped of snow, the ground has settled several inches. The birds are out. Supposed to be nice for a couple of days, and I look forward to that. I might get to town by Saturday, I might not. Read more...

Added Layers

I could tell it had snowed again by the degree of quiet. Flipped on the back porch light and it's a smooth white blanket, my paths are disappeared, all trace gone. I marvel, looking outside, at how pristine the world can be. It's beautiful, and not near so cold. Stoke the fire, pour a wee dram, roll a smoke, settle in for a couple of hours with a good book. When the refrigerator cycled on again I got up, to kill the breaker, and instead listened to some Skip James. That strain of blues where what seems like slightly sloppy guitar is actually dead on. I do love the blues, no matter if it's Chicago electric, or delta acoustic. The added layers of insulation build with the layers of snow, another couple of inches called for before it turns to rain tomorrow, then it becomes a muddy mess. 100 percent chance of rain turning to sleet turning to snow, but it did get to 32 degrees today, for the first time in days. Rotting snow. Three trips to the woodshed, and that's it for my time outside. It'll be a quagmire for a week, but I might be able to get to town early one morning. Sudden eruptions of sound when snow slides off the roof. That strange mist settles, when snow tries to sublimate into saturated air. A flock of Robins today and they seemed out of place. Then a light, almost frozen, rain, and I have the thought that I'll probably lose power tonight, so I make preparations Sleet, I'd better go. Hours later the dripping off the roof wakes me, I stoke the fire and make a mug of tea, sit in the dark, thinking idle thoughts about attachment. Breaking dawn and I can see it snowed again, four new inches and the trees are covered. It's incredibly beautiful. Another day of silent explosions. I don't go outside at all. I'd let the fire go out, the house was so warm, after breakfast just wrapped up in a blanket and settled in with a book. Next to the last meal of beans and cornbread, so I have to think about that, what to cook next. Something with noodles. Melt snow, carry wood, keep it simple. Read more...

Too Comfortable

Overslept. Barely caught the fire, just a few coals left, but enough to start over again. Shake off the sleep, crawl out from under the covers and turn on a light. Below zero. It's a good chance to clean the grate, rake the coals forward. It's a procedure, I've done it so many hundreds of times that I know all the moves. Instead of just throwing a log on, I need to nurse things for an hour, until I can get a big log going. Then I can go back to sleep. I manage to get pissed off about some inaccuracies in some fiction I'm reading. You can't put 5600 pounds of gasoline in an ambulance, no one has ever sheathed a house in 4x8 oak planks, in Key West, which is a tidal node, the rise and fall are measured in inches. Don't get me started. I know it must be Sunday because I go off on a rant. I've traditionally saved my rants for Sunday. I don't fully understand why I'm so anti-clerical, but vestments have always bothered me, as Henry said, never take a job where you have to change clothes. Which leads to a tirade against dietary restrictions. Jesus, it's cold, so I rail against that. Finally get back to sleep, secure and warm in my bag; wake, a few hours later, to a pewter sky and light snow. I have a smoked jowl in reserve, so I decide to make a pot of black beans and rice, and that'll leave me cracklings for cornbread. I've hoarded my last four fresh eggs for four pones of cornbread, then moving on into the powdered egg and dried milk version. A little wind and fine driven snow looks worse than it is. It warms to twenty degrees which actually feels a bit balmy. I couldn't get far from the stove because I was rendering cracklings and caramelizing onions. I ended up cooking a pot of navy beans, instead of black beans, because I had more of them, and by the time I'd mixed everything together, brought it to a boil, and slid it over to a cooler range on the cooktop, it was after five in the afternoon, another day spent making bean soup, then turn to making cornbread. I sometimes use the same 8 inch skillet for caramelizing onions that I use for cooking cornbread and I don't wipe it out, those little bits of charred onion in the cornbread crust are great. Add a tablespoon of rendered fat to the skillet, and put it in the oven until it's smoking hot, thin the batter a bit with boiling water, so it evens out in the hot pan, and bake it for twenty minutes. Snowing hard when the bread comes out of the oven, but I have to say, a pot of beans, rice, hot bread, it's difficult to find fault. I'd better send this, the weather is looking bad. Read more...

More Cold

Not too bad outside but the wind is supposed to come up again, so I take advantage of the calm to go look for tracks in the settled snow. Except for listening to the weather on the radio I prefer the quiet, the news is depressing. I do listen to Science Friday because it's almost always interesting. After the tracks excursion (one fox kill, one disappeared rabbit, a family of grouse) I carry in three armloads of wood, with a break between each, for tea and a reading session. Split some kindling, melt snow, make the rice dish, which is just a fried rice with cracklings, a totally unspectacular but filling dish. Use my time, the daylight hours, to double check what I need to get through the night. You have to hand it to those pioneers, life was brutal. A sod hut with a make-shift stove burning buffalo shit. Basho:

no moon, no blossoms,
just drinking sake
all alone

When I was outside I noticed that where there had been bare ground (no leaf cover) before the last snow, there was an odd surface ice formation. Miniature pingos. The bare ground held a little heat, sublimated off some snow and even surface moisture, but then it all froze rock hard. It's not quite like walking on a field of ice picks. My schedule now is based completely on feeding the fire, took an early nap so I would get up sometime after midnight, and my timing was close enough (there's quite a bit of slack in the system), caught the fire, got a drink, and rolled a smoke. Considering it's close to zero the house is amazingly comfortable. My plan is to stay up most of the night, feed the stove a couple of times, and start tomorrow, supposed to be the coldest day and night in this round, with the house as warm as I can get it. My fall-back position is to wrap up in several blankets and read Proust for 48 hours. The wind picks up, I can hear it in the stick trees, it moans like a lover, and calls like a siren. Fell asleep, but caught the fire again about five. Just in time, as the temps had dropped and it was cooling off inside the house. Went out on the back porch and it hurt to breathe. When I could damp down the stove I went back to sleep, by the time I'd gotten back up, made coffee and breakfast, it was after noon. Temps had climbed to 14 degrees, three trips to the woodshed during the course of the afternoon, and that was it, put on my bathrobe, over long underwear, jeans, and four layers up top. The stove wasn't burning hot, clogged with ashes, so I knocked the fire down, and dumped hot ashes, which is a bit tricky, but I get it done, and have a very hot fire twenty minutes later. It's supposed to warm into the twenties tomorrow. TR called from the museum, said that town was completely dead, as it should be, with extremely low wind chill. I wear a face mask when I go outside, and with my bathrobe, I must look suspicious. When the oven gets hot (over 400 degrees) I make a pone of cornbread, a thin pone, in the eight inch skillet, and I eat half of it while it's still hot. Now they're saying below zero but it doesn't make that much difference; a roaring fire, a down mummy bag. The next day you start over again, cold beans, cold tracks, general coldness. But it's not rocket science. Read more...

Time Factoring

Billable hours, whatever your going rate. It's difficult to place a value on some things. Highs of 15 degrees and lows at or below zero for the next several days. Got up about four and started trying to get the house warm. By eleven I could finally move over to my desk chair, with a lap-blanket and fingerless gloves. Brittle cold outside. I started melting snow right away, before it gets too dirty, I need to filter some and boil drinking water. Thinking what to cook tomorrow, to last another few days. A rice dish, with caramelized onions and peppers, and cracklings. I dug a James Lee Burke out of the Goodwill pile and settled in for a day of reading. Set the book down, stare out the window, get a mug of tea, put a log on the fire, write a few lines. Suit up, for three trips to the woodshed, and put off a walk, even just down to the head of the driveway, until tomorrow. It's too cold to fuck around. Besides, as Basho said, "lucky to be here / in my own hut". I'd been reading about French Fries, so I made a couple of small batches. My problem here is that I Iike any fried potato. A litany of transgressions. Got back up at one in the morning, caught the fire perfectly, opened the damper for a few minutes, then damped it right back down; the refractory heat in the firebox, with a bed of coals, is incredible, the oven is very hot, 600 degrees, and it nags me that I don't need to cook anything. When I got up yesterday, I was feeling my age, the house was cold, and I couldn't remember how to tie my shoelaces. First you stoke the fire, then you put on coffee, then you go outside to pee. It all comes back to you, how beautiful and unforgiving the world is. Below zero, without a thermostat, life is difficult. Still, I accept the challenge. Read more...

Difficult Circumstances

Snow bombs bursting out of the trees. When the wind picks up it turns into a blizzard. I'm wrapped up and reading Basho:

Black Forest:
so now what are you called?
a morning of snow

They're lifting the warnings this evening, then the forecast is for partial clearing with intermittent snow for several days, and very cold temps. I'd saved some good twisted night logs, so I brought those in. Then split some kindling to dry on the warming shelf, then brought in a couple of armloads of wood. Beans and cornbread. Out of my work boots, finally, after the last load of wood, and I was exhausted. Cleaned out ashes, stoked the fire. The handle for the oven door had started jamming and I looked at that. It needs to be disassembled, the parts cleaned (I use a citrus cleaner) and put back together, which I can do, have done, but I decide to put it off for a day because I don't need to use the oven tonight. I have beans with cracklings, and crackling bread, I'm riding the crest of the Crackling Revolution, and I don't want to get my hands dirty again today. I did get a pot of melted snow, an all day affair, quite hot, and washed some dishes. It seemed like a major accomplishment. Everything is slick, a thin coating of ice under snow, so I'm very careful moving around outside. I actually sometimes crawl up the back stairs on all fours, if I'm sure no one is watching. Bottom line is sanctuary, get back inside, make a cup of tea, wrap up in my bath-robe and a lap-blanket, I feel privileged to have a hut in the woods. Read more...

Full Stop

Not much to be done. I'll wash dishes tomorrow, do my cooking, and that'll take up most of the day. I'll sit over at the island for most of the time, caramelizing onions, reading, talking to myself. It takes hours to cook the beans, then ladle out the diced jowl and turn it into cracklings and lovely rendered pork fat. Add the cracklings back to the beans. I'll need to carry in wood, clean out ashes, and sweep up a bit. They're saying below zero Thursday and Friday, so that's the next hurtle. The last re-supply trip was certainly timely. At the mercy of the weather, which is so true, it's actually almost shocking. I won't get out for a week or two, but that's fine, except for missing the library, and even that isn't critical since I have a house full of books. I break out a clean set of long underwear and the insulated overalls, the simple act of peeing becomes a major event. Not much more I can do, if I fuck up, I freeze to death, though the chances of that are slim. If it gets very cold, you build a tent, with ski poles and a blanket, right in front of the stove. Everybody knows that. A fire at the cave mouth is a good idea. It was so quiet all night, I knew it was snowing, then blue dawns on the complete snow scene. All the branches covered, and when the wind picks up later, the tree snow will go on forever. It's stunningly beautiful. Generally light snow falling, with more emphatic bursts. Lovely. I move my base of operation over to the island and tend the fire, start the bean soup, a breakfast of hash and eggs, bring in the first bucket of snow to melt for wash water; and I'm reading the entire time, an Elmore Leonard novel wedged open with my book rock. I have a bath mat inside the back door, and a whisk broom, but I still track snow and ice everywhere, and the white is so intense I have to wear sun glasses inside. I can't listen to the political bullshit on the radio, so I listen to Miles Davis. Chopping onions, watching out various windows as the snow releases. Cascades. A silent battle of white explosions. Bitches Brew, after listening to Kind Of Blue, Miles is truly an American genius, leaves out almost everything, and yet. Like Beckett. Eight inches of snow when I go out to sweep a path across the back porch and sweep off the two steps. Not too cold, and no wind yet so I made a hot toddy, rolled a smoke, got my foam sitting-pad and sat on the stoop. The loudest noise is the soft puff of a branch load of snow falling on snow. Inside, I've made cracklings and the house smells great: campfire bacon with a hint of sassafras. And I do manage to take all day to make a pot of beans and crackling bread. I add a can of chopped spinach to the pinto beans, remembering a Provincetown recipe of chick peas and kale, then thicken the broth with some left over mashed potatoes. Hearty, and very good with toasted cornbread. In good spirit all day, to the point of laughing out loud at some sophomoric puns that I won't repeat. You had to be there. I have Basho out, the beautiful SUNY edition, and it's arranged chronologically, and therefore falls into the seasons, so it's easy to flip open to the winter of 1690-91 and see what Matsuo was up to. Also I had out the Emily book, The Gorgeous Nothings, and I was finding odd parallels. What we choose to notice, or what chooses us to notice. It's dark, it's cold outside, I bank a good fire, and crawl into my down bag. Beyond a certain point, there's nothing you can do. Read more...

Fox Trot

Twice in one day, socializing, effectively killing time until the driveway has a chance to dry, people recognize me by my voice. The full gray beard is a clever disguise, but my voice gives me away. Defined by word choice and diction. Not only defined, but identified. Driving home I was thinking about definition, almost drove off the road to avoid hitting a very confused young deer. I drive slowly through the forest, so it can mitigate between outside and inside, stop, at the bottom of the hill, collect my mail, shift into four-wheel drive. Driving up, with slick mud and ruts, requires concentration, you need to know exactly where your front wheels are, so I was focused on hitting my marks, momentum, gaining purchase on that last rise to the top. The fox appeared, right on the outer reach of the second curve. I was dumb-founded. I couldn't afford to pay any attention. She trotted all the way to the top, then led me over to my house. Fucking fox wants an apple. The "trot" is merely a method of moving, I know that, but it's such a dance, the fox trotting. I don't view it as a sign, it doesn't signify; a fox acting like a fox is not acting. My dozen oysters this week are 18, because, the sea-food lady explains, they never sell them all anyway. I make a version of the scallop dish, steaming them open in a little clam juice, with a reduced sauce, served on braised endive. It's excellent and half the price of making the dish with scallops. It needs a brightly colored side dish, because it looks rather bland, and I've haven't been able to decide what to do about that. The original recipe calls for deep-fried shredded beets, which I can't bring myself to try. Something bright green would work, or roasted and caramelized peppers with red onion. I'd heard snow mentioned, but I wasn't paying any attention, turned on the radio because NPR gives the weather on the hour, and yes, starting as rain tonight, turning to snow tomorrow. It's seems arrogant, or maybe just stupid, to say that I'm not even remotely concerned, that's to say that I'm not overly worried, about my ability to survive. I will heat up the kitchen tomorrow, enough to take a sponge bath and wash my hair, and bring in some wood. My various piles of reading matter are teetering, and dust bunnies are collecting in the corners, the study of a man at rest. Not having to make excuses or explain my living habits is part of the equation, the quiet is another, and the fact that time slows down, in winter, on the ridge. A simple chore, bringing in an armload of wood, starting unshod, at my desk, in the spring or fall, I can accomplish in maybe five minutes; mid-winter it can take an hour or more; some days, all you can do is keep a good fire burning. In my essay, "An Apology For Stupidity" I argued that being stupid was reason enough, that not knowing wasn't that different from knowing. That playing with their ball, on their court, by their rules, wasn't fair, and that you should file a lawsuit, or take away their kitchen privileges. Winter Weather Warning, bunch of snow starting tonight (already started here, late morning) continuing through the night and tomorrow. Fall into deep winter mode again. Cracklings and bean soup with cornbread, stack the extra winter garb near my chair, bring in another armload of wood. I do get outside for an hour, and it's an extremely desolate scene. The dead and dormant, everything shades of the same color, my work boots encased in an ice and mud mixture, and my beard slightly frozen. A hiatus in the afternoon, then a rain starts, changing over to snow. I'm deep into another Lescroart crime novel, well-wrapped, with a drink at hand; I'll do the cooking tomorrow, the cracklings, the bean soup, the cornbread; for tonight I just had sardines on toast, with a thick slice of onion. Started snowing hard at four in the afternoon. I'd better send this. Read more...

Extremely Calm

I was ready to drive out to the nearest PO, to mail my bills, but I stayed up this morning, writing until five, then slept, and when I got back up we had entered another thaw cycle. It was a mess and I didn't feel like dealing with it. A mug of tea, finished the new Bosch novel and read a New Yorker. I'd picked up some eye-of-round slices of beef, tougher than shoe leather, but I planned to pound the hell out of them and roll them around crab-cake stuffing. I braised them in red wine and butter and they were good, nothing special, tough. In winter mode, adequate is fine. I'm not setting the bar very high here. Nothing I can't step over. Keep a path to the woodshed, keep very dry kindling, and remember to bring the toilet seat in at night. Today I decided I had to get my bills mailed, the last thing I need to do in February. The driveway was frozen up top, so I didn't think much about it, but down at the infamous second curve it was already thawed. Very frightening descent for a few hundred yards, and I knew it was going to be impossible to get back in unless I killed most of the day in town, give things a chance to dry somewhat. So I went to the library. An event called "The Chocolate Walk" was happening in town, you buy a ticket, you get a bag and a map, and everybody gives you chocolate; and there were a great many mostly female fat people on the streets. The pub was on the walk. I got a free beer because one had been miss ordered, and then free chocolate. Went to the museum and talked with TR, watched and listened to a great soprano doing a piece of modern opera. It was incredibly vibrant, I liked it quite a lot (Hannigan, I think), then went back to the pub. Greeted by a couple of Irish musicians I knew slightly, and we had a lively conversation, they bought me another beer; and I had spent the day in town, easy as that. Drove home slowly, thinking about what I had forgotten: citrus segments in light syrup, those fucking batteries, a couple of unripe avocados, but you can't beat yourself up about minor lapses. I get back in without too much trouble, treat myself to a small steak and a sweet potato, browned butter with black pepper; I'm a simple guy, if I eat well and sleep warm, I don't worry too much about tomorrow. Read more...

Still Vague

Why we do the things we do. I don't know. Surely I could have found a better line of work, something that involved a thermostat and a flush toilet, but it's getting cold again, and the little pellets of ice are hammering on the roof. This is what I have, what my classmates, back when, voted most likely to succeed, a disheveled dude rendering cracklings on a wood-stove. It's actually a considered position, better than the alternative. Finally lost power for a few hours, so I curled up and went back to sleep, I was up most of the night moving commas. Started a fire about three this morning (two days without a fire in February) and pulled a chair up to the stove to read for a while. Had one of those moments when you see yourself from the outside. I had to laugh. It's three in the morning, and here's this guy, seated on a small rocking chair, bathrobe over overalls over long underwear over a cashmere sweater, Linda-knit hat, fingerless wool gloves, hunched over a tobacco pouch rolling a cigaret with fingers that aren't working properly. Lap-robe, two pair of socks and house slippers that have been repaired with duct tape. I look like an idiot. It's not so much a disguise as it is the actual state of just muddling through the winter. My current whiskey glass, which I think is a holder for a votive candle, on the very off corner of the stove, to heat the whiskey just a bit, sometimes I add a small pat of butter. Just the ticking of the stove, and the ticking of the house. Close to perfect. Close enough, in fact, I don't desire anything else. Further good news is that I can get out to the post office tomorrow or the next day and mail my bills for the month, and I don't actually need anything else, though I might stop at the pub for a beer. Maybe stop at the Italian place for a slice of feta/olive pizza to take home. Studying the Raven map of landforms in the USA, a tremendous map, and with a magnifying glass you can see that Low Gap Hollow is the watershed, west, to Ohio Brush Creek, and south, to Upper Twin Creek. Turkey Creek starts a few hundred yards away and goes north to the lake. I don't have a wall large enough for this map, so I keep it rolled in a corner, lay it out on the floor, with rock weights, when I need to look for something. I spend a fair amount of time trying to specifically locate where something happened. How geography shaped events. Just an interest of mine. So I study maps, and other graphic displays of information; signs that are grammatically incorrect, skirts that are too short, labels that promise more than they can deliver. There are odd prime numbers, all of them odd, increasingly wide-spaced, that seem to go to infinity. I can't wrap my head around that, so I kick up the fire and make a pone of crackling bread. It's self-indulgence. Two poached eggs on a toasted wedge of cornbread. Actually, I think these are cuddled eggs, steamed in a double-boiler I picked up at the Goodwill, perfect eggs, and perfect with the cornbread. Read more...

Still Raining

If this had all been snow, I'd be buried. Woke me, about three, when it started falling in buckets. We haven't had rain like this in quite a while, and I worry about the grader ditches. Just glad I got into town yesterday and have a dozen (16) oysters, everything for a butternut squash risotto, a couple of small steaks Scott sent over via B, and two jowls for making cracklings. The new Outhouse Calendar was in the mailbox. I didn't have a calendar last year, lost in the mail, and I only got confused a couple of times, not knowing what day it was. I also bought three bay scallops and a head of endive and can't believe I've invested $15 in a single-serving dish. I don't even know how to pronounce endive. This is what happens when you open up to other people. Barnhart reads me to his mother and she sends me a gorgeous cookbook, I read these recipes as if they were Faulkner short stories, Jim Harrison, and I had gone back to this scallop recipe several times; the next thing you know I'm buying scallops and endive. Just did an emergency SAVE, because I didn't want to lose that thought, and it rains even harder. "Blow, transformer, blow / all my troubles away...". The wind sets up a little howl, flowing over the ridge, it rattles branches, and rain becomes erratic, shifting direction. This is setting up the mother of all freeze thaw cycles. There's no place for the water to go. Turkey Creek is running in spate, even my little rill is making some noise. This terrain, hollows opening out to the flood plain, lends itself to inundation. Then everything becomes a sheet of ice. Occasionally you can walk under this ice, in creek beds, when the ice has frozen above. It's beautiful. The Scioto is out of its banks, and all of the low-lying bean fields are flooded. Temps are going to start dropping tonight, snow tomorrow night. I'd better shut down, it's getting biblical. Reading the new Bosch novel, Connelly is a good writer; some time after dawn I went back to sleep for a couple of hours. If you don't mind spending $15 bucks a serving, the scallops on braised endive and raw apples (sliced very thin) is an easy and very fast thing to fix. Don't cook the scallops for more than minute, literally. Brought in an armload of wood, though I had no intention of starting a fire, so it could thaw and release some surface moisture. Walked about half-way down the driveway and collected a gallon of spring water, which is quite cold and tasty. A cup of tea, later, I was thinking about relationships, how I had failed at most of mine. Which bothers me less, as time goes on, because the last fifteen years have been engaging, spending so much time alone, watching and listening to the natural world. It takes precedence, in the face of things. I don't like a lot of things I see and hear in the outside world, the world of commerce; I'd, frankly, rather be dissecting tadpoles, or sucking on oak galls, or frying minnows in pork fat, but I concede, whatever, the ways of the world. Rather one thing than another. Reading Basho tonight, winter of 1690, "usually hateful / yet the crow too / in this dawn snow". The wind is blowing a young gale. It's easy enough to wrap in my down bag and ignore the world. Read more...

Cold Comfort

Occasionally the timing works. On my walk I saw that the driveway was firming up, tomorrow is supposed to be nice, 50 degrees and sunny, it's not going to freeze tonight, and the wind is going to pick up after midnight. I'll be able to get out and back in, have some lunch in town, talk to a couple of people, and lay in supplies. Events seldom conspire so perfectly. Usually the winter list is winnowed down to what I can carry up the hill, but this time I revise upward. Drinking water for the month, whiskey, tobacco and papers, plus replacing everything I've eaten from the pantry. Two smoked jowls and one other meat or fish, depending on what's remaindered; greens, onions, turnips, and several more cans of those very good tamales. I can take my time shopping, and at the library, because I won't have to race home to beat a thawing driveway. Also, B doesn't teach on Tuesday, so I can stop down and see him. Another storm is coming in behind this nice weather, and it'll be good to be well prepared. I make a note to pay the land taxes, because I might not get out again before they're due. Then sit with a cup of tea and try and think about what I must have forgotten. It's impossible not to forget things, and it usually doesn't matter that much; you're in town, working, or driving the kid to math camp, you pick things up. If you forget it today, you get it tomorrow. You probably don't keep a back-up black pepper. It would be, what? unnecessary? But to be out of black pepper for two weeks, for me, is unthinkable, so I keep a back-up grinder. Another book on the history of chickens, and a history of olive oil that I'm saving for the next "snow emergency". Several options for long convoluted fiction. And I have a list of words that I need to run through the various dictionaries. Pone, pain, pan, for instance, which I can see will take several days. If I'm reading or writing and a particular word intrudes, I usually drop everything and pursue it right then, but some times I just make a note of it, to be pursued later. Winter words. I store them up for snowbound days in front of the stove. Reading Anthony Burgess, rereading actually, Earthly Powers, and I think he must have added more words to English than anyone in modern times. His genius is that the words are absolutely correct. I love reading him. Got out, though the driveway was still a bit dicey. Spent most of the day in town, conversations, a slow shop through Kroger. Then home, with a stop for eight potato logs, tobacco and a great many packs of papers. Stopped at B's, had a wee dram and talked for a while. The mailbox was stuffed, two New Yorkers, all of the bills I need to pay this month, and a couple of books. Excellent. The drive back in was only slightly scary; the fact that you have to keep up momentum, but the rear end slips around and there isn't much room for mistakes. It's a great feeling, getting back on the ridge, unloading supplies; while I'm putting things away, I eat a couple of potato logs, dipped in horseradish/mayo. Cory told me, at the pub, that we were going to get some serious rain, the next few days, so I fill my wash pot with water and clean one of the pickle buckets. If it's warm enough tomorrow, I'll take another sponge bath. I got coffee and drinking water today, juice, back-up whiskey, all the liquids, and canned goods to replace what I'd used. Going into February and I'm well-stocked, I've still got butternut squash I rescued from the Tim Horton display, and some pumpkins I picked up off the side of the road. As Cory had said, it starts raining sometime in the night, the wind picks up, and it's soon blowing a gale. I sign off and go to sleep. Read more...

No Way

Had to laugh. I'd walked over to the head of the driveway, to see what the footing was like, and I could barely stand upright. A new layer of frost on top of an old layer of frost. Rummaging around I decided to make some potato dumplings. Made a pouch of the Idaho Reds, set half of it aside to fry for breakfast cakes, then mixed in a finely minced onion and a large handful of bacon bits, formed them with two tablespoons, rolled them in bread crumbs, then fried in the pork fat. A horseradish/mayo dipping sauce. I recommend these. Called TR at the museum, I knew he'd be alone and I wanted to talk for a few minutes with another human being. Bright and interesting conversation, I told him I'd be in, next week sometime, to see the new exhibits. He stays current, so he catches me up to speed on what's going on, and I appreciate that, because I'm always so far behind. Finally, some wind, wakes me after I'm bedded down, and it will certainly help, drying things out. It's dry in the house, because of the stove, but outside, between saturated air and saturated frozen ground there's no place for the moisture to go. It hangs around, as ground fog, and the humidity is very high; when the atmospheric moisture drops, sublimated vapor rises and disappears, often described as smoke, which it most resembles. There are times it seems like a vast illusion, and other times, sucking the sweetness from an oak gall, that it seems pretty specific. Got up and puttered about, finally heated up water on the hot plate. It's fifty degrees and the ground is a soggy mess. I can see where Ryan locked-up his brakes near the top of the hill: a scary sled ride. I wash a sink full of dishes and concentrate attention on cleaning myself. Sponge bath (I might not be able to strip down naked for several weeks), wash my hair, a complete change of clothes, trim my beard, pluck errant hairs, cut my nails. It's an afternoon at the spa. I emerge looking more like an eccentric professor and less like a hard-scrabble redneck with an axe to grind. Generally, on Sunday, I allow myself to rant about some injustice. I've done this forever, since high school debates. I excelled at debate, and the consensus was that I'd end up as a lawyer/politico or a speech writer. I was always interested in the law, and more especially the Constitution, and I could have done that easily, gotten that degree, taught Constitutional Law, but I've always been so easily distracted. First you run off with the circus (or spend a season in summer-stock theater), then you learn to print, then you build houses, and the law is less attractive than actually making something with your hands. Muted sound of wind in stick trees. It mimics music and I often hear little snippets of Bach or an Eric Clapton riff, sometimes drifts of conversation. The crows were out today, but no other birds. I micro-waved a couple of mice for them, and they seemed appreciative, at least in so far as I can judge their behavior. I don't speak Crow. Polenta, made from left-over grits, is very absorbent, not unlike eggplant, and I like to fry rounds of them until they're quite brown. I love this hot with a cold salsa. I used to form the patty in a can, now I just a slap a serving into hot bacon fat and form it with the spatula. One less dish to clean. These grits, from Logan Turnpike Mills, are one of the best things I've ever eaten. Cheese grits with cracklings, some greens and pot liquor, a really sharp blue cheese, reading at the island. No fire and I'm warm and clean. The wind has come up, which should help dry things out. If I can get out I'll resupply for February, plenty of wood, plenty of books, I could stay inside for the entire month. Careful ventures to the woodshed for a wheelbarrow load every other day. Put on crampons and walk the logging road. I could get to town, a time or two, but I might not. If someone calls, and says they want to slog in for a visit, I tell them to bring whiskey and cigaret papers. It doesn't happen often, in February, an average of less than one over the last fifteen years. It can be pretty tough, walking up the hill in winter, with a pack, with horizontal snow slapping you in the face. I do my Basho imitation, then a Sherpa routine, call off the stations of the cross, closer, my god, to thee, and go outside to pee because Mac and NPR have been telling me that I can see all five visible planets tonight, at the same time. Of course, since this is Ohio, I can't see a fucking thing. Living in the far west spoils you, in terms of the sky. Read more...