Staying Home

Rain on the roof, I don't have to be anywhere, I don't have to talk to anyone. A perfect day to examine my failures. Stare out at the middle distance and remember. It's certainly true that I'm lucky to be alive. That world, out there, is dangerous, falling debris, drunk drivers, and the occasional shifting of the earth. At the first sign of conflict, I retreat. Outside, for the air, the frogs, of course, and the bugs; there's a bird I haven't heard before, a high-pitched squeak, and a mocking bird that calls everything into question. When it starts raining again I have to go inside, the rain is so cold it sends goose-bumps up my arm. A fine day, examining the food inventory for a man-of-war, then frying some potatoes. Officers ate off plates, with proper implements; before the mast, everyone had their own wooden bowl and spoon. I took my lunch from home, during most of my schooling, a piece of cornbread, some leftovers, a couple of pieces of fried salt-pork, but I liked the crap they served in the cafeteria, I'd never had it before, chicken pot pie? tuna casserole? In Junior High, Key West, we had turtle burgers on Thursday. Decades later, I was making a nice turtle soup in Mississippi adapted from Marjorie Rawlings' recipe. There's a learning curve in there somewhere. I was thinking about a needle and thread, to stitch together the covering for a bone framed hut on the steppes of Russia. The needle was probably bone, the thread was probably gut, and the seam was probably water-proofed with pitch. Naval stores, I love that, a large and open set. Useful glues and sealants. Doping fabric. Wearing oilskins and wellies. Something I read yesterday, a quote by some movie executive saying that he knew Doris Day before she was a virgin makes he laugh again remembering it today. I needed to go to town, but I was out early and found the first morels of the year. Came immediately back indoors and had them sauteed in butter, on toast with an egg on top. I couldn't resist opening the last bottle of Frank's Family Farm's chardonnay, which, for a white wine, I found to be absolutely beautiful. Naturally, the trip to town was postponed (I need to study that word) and I went right back out and collected enough mushrooms for an omelet tomorrow. I left the rest to fill out for a day or two, praying that the damned turkeys don't find them. This year, I swear, I'll kill a turkey if they get into my patch again, and make it into a country pate with the mushrooms. It would be a magnificent pate, and costly for almost anyone other than me. A turkey, a pound of morels, half a pound of butter, pistachios, brandy, a pound of chicken livers. I don't have a decent scale, so I've never figured the numbers closely, but I end up with four or five pounds of product and I can compute what it costs me. If I added in labor, especially the clean-up, no one could afford this stuff. I can only afford it because I live in a cave and don't keep track of time, which allows some freedom of movement, also, of course, the turkey and morels are free. JC called, knowing my penchant for mushrooms, with a recipe she'd heard on the radio, Linda and Joel will call, keeping me updated on the cost of morels in Atlanta and St. Paul, prices I can only barely believe. I'm fairly obsessive, especially in the spring, coming out of hibernation: morels, wild asparagus, cat-tail shoots, and I use a lot of butter. Old house sites are almost always defined by beds of daffodils, there is almost always a feral orchard, and morels favor the roots of apple trees. Off to the traces.