Cold Morning

First time down into the thirties. I woke up reaching for a blanket. Beautiful light, and I take my coffee outside, wrapped in my stadium blanket, and watch. A wonderful daze. Stir, finally, to start a fire, cook bacon, fry potatoes, soft scramble a couple of eggs, country bread with butter and maple syrup. I felt awful, yesterday, a 24 hour thing, no trace of it today, except for being hungry. Didn't feel like doing anything. Ran into a mountaineering term, brocken spectre, which is the magnified shadow of the observer, on mist or fog. I've ever only seen this on a beach. I was reading about some first assents, these people are strange. Two guys climbed Everest up one side and down the other. I have a young friend that's going to be the cook for a year in Antarctica. I wonder about the larder. Freezing isn't a problem, so what will the options be? Three meals a day, many calories, it's a lot of food. In the summer, when they were re-supplying, there would be fresh stuff, but most of the time it would be dry or frozen. They've made great advances in preserving food. You could have corn-dogs and fries one night, and a very good Brussels' Sprout dish the next. I suppose you'd have to make bread nearly every day. How many cooks? How many mouths to feed? An interesting subject. I'd like to see the kitchen. Mine's a wreck right now, transitioning to the wood cookstove. Summer cooking and winter cooking are so different:

A moon in the trees,
the stews and beans of winter,
then asparagus.

Sandstone is actually fairly fragile, when you look at the long picture. A few million years, it's dust. Time is the factor. Time is always the factor.