Nothing Yet

It's certainly convenient, a rest- stop. I got up to pee and it was already after six in the morning, just breaking light, after the change in time, and I was surprised I'd slept through the night. It takes a while to back off the winter-mode, where you get up and put a log on the fire, maybe get a wee dram and have a smoke. I usually have four or more books complete with bookmarks and cryptic pencil notations, scattered around. One at the island (right now a history of salt), one on the sofa (usually fiction) and one on each side of my desk, the one at my left hand is generally my primary book of the moment (The Beaufort Scale) and the one at my right is usually a reference book related to the book at my left. An involved system that just happened, there was never a plan, a diagram or anything, but now, whenever I get up, there's something to attract my attention. Marjorie Rawlings is very good on grits and cornmeal; I'd started a small crock-pot of grits last night, and spooned out a bowl, added some cheese, and was enjoying the great stomach-warming effect of hot grits on a cold morning, reading about hominy. The first slanted light, I noticed a fuzz, a blur, at the top-most branches of the oak trees. Buds for sure. I'd thought about going to town, a stop at the library, a beer at the pub, some conversation, but I ended up wandering over to the graveyard. The annual counting of the graves. The graves are shallow depressions that fill with leaves, then water, and turn dark, so it's easier to see them, and I count sixteen (which is a low number, I believe there are 23). A breeze had picked up and I was sitting on my cemetery resting spot (a stump), leaning back against a large oak tree. There was a yearling doe, rooting around, about fifty feet away. Suddenly there was a gunshot and the deer crumpled. I knew several things instantly, a poacher, a .22 rifle, and I didn't want to get shot; so I wanted to make my presence known, in a completely non-threatening way. I waved a white flag of toilet paper on a stick. It worked, I didn't get shot. I told him we were on my property, but that I didn't him shooting a deer, as long as he used it all. Within a very minutes we'd hoisted and bled the animal; normally, he said, he'd cut off the head and feet, and take it home for butchering, but he asked me if there was any part I wanted, and I had to say, well yes, I wouldn't mind having the liver and maybe half a loin. There's this recipe where you roll a loin in something sticky, then ground nuts, dust with chili powder, and cook it very hot. Duck breasts for instance. I make a hash with duck breasts too, minced potatoes and shallots, that some people swear by, but this venison loin, I just layer in nuts and spices, slice thin, and serve with roasted root vegetables. The crust is incredible. I ended up driving the kid (which he is) down to the trailer where he lives with his mom and dad, an enclave of trailers on a Forest Service road, meet the folks, beg off staying for supper, and get back to my loin. The entire day became a diversion, field dressing and skinning the deer, driving him home, having a beer with his parents, getting back home and cleaning the liver, pate tomorrow, and grilling the loin, painted with honey and crusted in ground nuts, and making a reduced sauce that might well raise the dead. Time I get done, wash a few dishes, it's way after dark, and I went out to sit on the back steps. Twelve hours ago I had been considering going to town, thinking I needed stimulation, when I'm confronted in a very short span, without going anywhere, with a very interesting narrative. Why bother making anything up? I fired up the cookstove, to get the oven hot enough to roast chunks of sweet potato, parsnips and turnips, and I browned the loin in bacon fat, then braised in wine and butter, certainly didn't cook for more fifteen minutes, total browning and braising time, the very center should still be quivering. I favor venison steaks for breakfast, very hot cast iron skillet, bacon fat, seared two minutes on the first side and one minute on the other, a perfect fired egg, cheese grits on the side. Done died and gone to heaven. This is a special treat, and left-overs for another meal, and a pate that I need to make, though I freeze the liver so I don't have to make it tomorrow. Exhausted and stuffed, I fell asleep early, then got up about three and wrote for a couple of hours, cleaned up and went into town mid-morning. Amazing. Almost a thousand feet below the ridge and everything was in bloom, spectacular color, blossoms on the wind. Portsmouth is not an attractive city, but it was quite handsome today. No one at the pub, so I was able to chat with Justin, then stopped at the museum. Kroger, picked up what I needed to make pate, got a slice of Feta and olive pizza, and headed home along the river. The seven and half miles up the creek, I didn't pass a single car, and drove about 15 mph, noting abandoned apple trees. The creek itself is a lovely thing, the banks covered in rampant growth, and I park in the middle of the first ford, to sit and have a smoke. It's so lush, and the green is so intense. Harrison's new novellas at the library today, and a series of interviews with Coetzee, and in the mail an Audubon issue about crows. I won't starve for lack of reading. I won't starve generally, as I have too much food right now. I almost started cooking a pot of beans, because I didn't have any, but caught myself in time. The wind is blowing a fresh gale, I save, such as is possible, go eat cheese and olives, waiting for the power to fail.