Free Lunch

Gold star trip to town except the library was closed (whatever an in-service day is) but I have a mammoth book by Bolano "2666" to read. Got to the pub, the beer rep was there, and he bought me a beer. Cory was photographing a lunch item for the new menu, so I got a free lunch, an excellent humus wrap. At the liquor store in Kroger Jesse slipped a nip of single malt in my bag, Glendronach, one of my favorites. Now that winter is mostly over, I need to change out the fridge. I need to start freezing things for next winter, and I can't store left-overs on the porch anymore. Asparagus, again, 99 cents a pound, sliced in a long diagonal, fried in brown butter. I have enough stems now for a soup. Thunder storms for a couple of days. Darren calls with the news that the barrel-stave factory has dry off-cuts very cheap, straight grain white oak, log butts and rejects, and promises to bring me a load. Timely, as I'd started thinking about next winter's wood. Ahead of the curve. I need to fabricate a new grid for the firebox in the cookstove, so I need to go to the welding shop and talk with the guys there. I know them pretty well, we've been designing the perfect grill for years, I usually show up at five with a twelve pack of Bud. Ike is anxious to show me the plasma cutter, which is so hot, it leaves no sharp edges. Full gale, I'd better go. Violent wind, at the front end of the first rain; came sweeping in from the northwest and had the trees bending 45 degrees. Dead branches crashing around, one hits the woodshed like a gunshot; and a roaring like trains coming from all directions. Quite spectacular. I made some thin corn cakes on a griddle, but they were too tender to roll up (I might have to invest in a tortilla press) so I just ate them as open-face sandwiches, with tuna, chopped onions, and peppers. Drink a couple of mugs of chicken broth with a lot of black pepper. The sky is a mottled combination of grays, and I read hundreds of pages of this Bolano novel. It's completely engrossing. It's actually five short novels, and the fifth one is extraordinary writing. He juggles the writer persona right in front of us, and it's so beautifully done. Basho:

heat waves
shimmering from the shoulders
of my paper robe

Reading a writer writing at the top of their form is a treat. Pound in his cage. I had a friend they shocked seventeen times, and he still made sense. Between showers I walked down to where several springs form the headwaters of Upper Twin Creek. A lovely spot, you can see the sandstone layers. Everything is exposed. The path I use to get there is a deer trail, wends down through the scrub, arrives at a small pool I dug, where I can fill a water bottle. Within half-a-mile there are five springs that go in four different directions. Watershed Estates. I expect to find first morels tomorrow or Saturday, so I had picked up an extra dozen eggs, as a morel omelet is very close to god, and made a marmalade of red onions and tangerines. The Boy Scout motto comes to mind. I just want to be ready. I made an herb and cheese omelet just to make sure the skillet was properly cured, bought an extra pound of butter. I've a whole pork loin I cured and smoked, and I have to say that a couple of slices of that, with red-eye gravy, is a fine way to start the day. I applaud that cowhand who first discovered that pan-drippings and black coffee was actually a very good combination. Mom made a white sauce, pan-drippings, flour and water, salt and pepper, sometimes cream, that was incredible. Listen, I make good gravy, in one case a Baroness committed suicide, I was never sure of the connection, but the timing was right. Later, the narrator, who was probably me, complained that he didn't like his role, a minor character told him to shut up, that any work was better than no work, sing in the chorus, you stupid motherfucker, at least you get potatoes. Right, I get that, nothing succeeds like resistance.