There are other places I could be today, but I'd have to leave this place to get there. Right here is where I mean to cling for the duration. Maybe I'll die here, but for sure, this is where I'm going to live.
Reuben is alive and well at Georgiana's Java Joint down the hill at 18 Church Street. The German-style potato salad is the real thing, too. You'd never find any edible so decadently delicious in Bavaria.
The java ain't bad either. Georgiana's double espresso will fuel you through at least three chapters, including a couple of re-writes.
If you follow this blog, you may have noticed that lately I've been posting a lot of poetical scraps and remnants I've accumulated over the years. My plan has been to retire and become a poet when I'm 80 years old. That doesn't give me much to finish with fiction. I may have to revisit my timeline.
In any case, the Main Muse has been telling me for a while now that I ought to try to get my poems published. I take her advice seriously. She told me for years that I ought to write novels. I should have listened sooner. But for now, I have a novel manuscript that I'm pushing to get in shape to submit (again). That done, we'll see.
Until then, novels remain what I write for strangers, for pay. Poems, I write for my friends, for love.
November was upon us before we finally got an overnight freeze. We harvested the last of the garden greens before that happened, and afterward, it was time to dig sweet potatoes. The porch plants are spending the chilly nights with us indoors now. We'll miss all our summer neighbors, but winter neighbors, yes, we do tend to love them best.
So it may just look like bread to you. But I see (and smell) sourdough with dill and rosemary. Jane Ella cut the rosemary by the back gate while I was kneading the dough. Three loaves came out of the oven, but one didn't make it to the cooling rack. It got sliced along the way Making bread is essentially a meditative practice. Kneading is an act that engages the body and stills the mind. It is like rowing a boat on a gentle swell. Like being rocked in the womb, if you can remember that far back. Thought would just get in the way. Baking may be one of the most subversive spiritual acts we humans are capable of. Every time we bake a loaf, we can eat our prayer.