Hash

I can't defend myself, I just know my own limitations. I can't go to Florida, I couldn't deal with the people. A walk, in a lull, I sat on a stump and wept. This went on for a while, like one of those Scandinavian TV shows, all I can do is kick the can down the road. Load and attachment. Wedges and pegs. Self and other. Mostly what we construct is an elaborate fiction. That iconic first or third person. I had one last butternut squash that was still decent, several had rotted, so I made a cream soup, with powdered milk and dehydrated onions that was pretty good, a toasted cheese sandwich. There's a red-headed woodpecker that wants to build a nest in my eave, so I finally get out the extension ladder and spray some tobacco and hot pepper juice in and around the hole he's digging in the siding, teach his ass a lesson. Then I make a mac and cheese, fold in some caramelized onions and sautéed mushrooms, bake it until the breadcrumbs are toasted. JC heard about this on the radio and I had to try it. Excellent. A great winter recipe, hot, filling, and easy to put together from what's at hand. I make a note to buy more macaroni. B now has an entire set of topographic maps mounted on a wall, and I could look at it for hours. A vast system of drainage that carried off the water from the last glaciation. And it was a lot of water, land-bridges flooded, the entire geography changed. You couldn't walk to Australia anymore. In the old days, you used to be able to walk to Australia.