Beef femur and knuckles bubble in the oven. And I’m listening to their boney hymn and reading through a recipe from a very good book Sorbet of cultured milk, a whisked duck egg and jam from raspberries picked last autumn.* Not that I’ll prepare it. I love cookbooks written by great chefs—the ones who cook with their hearts but have plenty of mind. I have no interest in copying their recipes. I want to see how they think. Wild trout roe served in a warm crust of dried pig’s blood. But not all the recipes have so much bravado and I’m looking for the dishes in between the wildly creative: A little lump of very fresh cheese, one lavender petal from last summer. And you may ask—I ask myself often—why is any of this important? What does it have to do with the meaning of life (as if everything we do must consider the meaning of life… but yes, yes it must)? Our ancestors were superior to us in the creativity of food. Out of necessity. I cannot think of a more important time to return to this notion. To annihilate the food of diabetes and heart disease and Alzheimer’s. The food of convenience. To return to food as our medicine. To return to place and time. To eat foods grown by the same sun that turns my skin golden the same sun that nourishes me. To return to the place of fish and fowl. And hours have passed good hours we stepped away from our little kitchen and out onto our friends big farm along the Sassafras and it was low tide so the kids played on the beach that is erased during high tide and we walked back up the hill toward the house and the children ran around the yard and up and down the steps to the garden and climbed trees and went in and out of their secret places while we watched the autumn sun shimmer across the mouth of the Sassafras where it touches the big Chesapeake Bay and enjoyed each other’s conversation and company and the sun was hanging low in the sky on the ride home and the fields were golden and the red barns stood with pride and my wife and I agreed there’s no place like this place and we compared it to Mid-Coast Maine that we love but it’s different here the landscape is different a particular landscape that has woven itself into my heart and now the roasted bones are in a pot of water on the stove and left in the roasting pan was a perfectly rendered clean tallow that I’ve reserved next to the Pennsylvania Amish clarified butter and the lard from frying bacon and the glass of olive oil. And I put whole hakurei turnips with their greens attached into the pan mixing them with a bit of tallow and olive oil and salt and they’re roasting at 400 degrees while the sirloin is coming to room temp. And after dinner we played our instruments upstairs under the bright light of the playroom then readied the girls for bed in their nightgowns and after the roughhousing after throwing the pillows and sofa cushions onto the ground finally yes finally they’d had enough and allowed the cartoons playing on the small upstairs television the only television in the house to lull them to sleep. And I’m flipping through the recipe book again and thinking about picking Phil up tomorrow to begin another week and we’re getting somewhere the two of us working together it’s happening faster now and by the week’s end the ceiling and walls will be complete and we’ll transition to laying the new wide plank wood floors. And I’m thinking about the equipment being delivered all week long the equipment is being shipped from different warehouses and it’s all arriving at different times on different days and it’s slightly complicated though the price was right doing it this way choreographing it myself instead of paying a proper distributor… no need no need I’ve done this four times now and by the end of the week the new equipment for the prep kitchen will be in place and there’s only one kitchen left to build. And last week I ordered the wood burning oven and the hood installers came out and the second kitchen the open kitchen is well underway. And and and I keep going until it is done bit by bit and when I commit to bit by bit I find how quickly it all comes together. And yesterday at home in our little kitchen I attempted a dish I’ve had in my head for a rather long time and it didn’t work. I’m not disheartened though I may not try again. It didn’t speak to me as I made it. Catfish roulade with very rich grits. The grits were very nice though it was the preparation of catfish that I had never done before. And it didn’t speak to me. There are other ways for the catfish to exhibit its prominence. Bit by bit. But blah blah blah that sentiment because I’d really like to cook again I’m getting impatient. So this week I’ll push harder so this gets done faster. And the sun flickers though the line of loblolly pines whooooooosh burnin rubber 60 miles per hour through golden soy and sprouting rye. Gotta pick up Phil gotta pick up Phil gotta pick up Phil and now the truck cab smells likes stale cigarettes it there’s something about it mixed with autumn morning crisp that I don’t mind the smell of getting back to the good work the routine and we stop at the Rock Hall hardware store for a bucket of mud and sticky mesh tape. And twisting ancient maples are beginning their death chants of yellow and red up the long farm roads and the geese are honking proudly overhead and there’s energy there’s energy there’s energy it feels like the beginning of the end a great supernova as the Northern Lights descended into the southern sky whooooooosh purple and pink like Van Gogh impasto sky. And soon the earth and sky will be brown and grey and beige. The time of Thinking Man approaching. When there is more dark when tested are souls to bring their light. And I plan to bring a little twang to the approaching long night. A little twang to make it right.
*Magnus Nilsson Fäviken: 4015 Days, Beginning to End
absolutely love your writing...my fav part? Your lack of periods.....it just flows on, like life should, without periods......
I like the serialisation ... and the storyline, as well as the shed. :-}