Beans, Bacon, Bream

Dear Maria,

I don’t know if a young mockingbird spreading its wings in the sun for a few moments constitutes real news, but it’s the show for the moment. More exciting entertainment—at least when I am sitting at my desk—is watching nearly a dozen house sparrows mug one another at the feeder. Then a dove comes fluttering in and off the sparrows go as if tail feathers on fire. High hilarity, to be sure. Almost a daily show and so they could go on the road, south most likely.

The wind is up and winter temperatures are forecast for most of the next ten days, and that will get us deeper into January—see, I believe spring comes in March no matter what and so carving out a chunk of January is cause for celebration.

Yesterday, while I was eating a variation of beans and rice, etc. that dominates my cuisine, I got caught up in two message threads and an email exchange. I know, shouldn’t multi-task when eating. Sometimes I do just sit in my chair, enjoying a meal and the view. Sometimes outside at the table, and I never attend to anything else—just taking in the surroundings.

When I got back to the bowl at hand, the food was cold. I ate it anyway, black beans and all. Not terrible, just different. Reminded me of eating Campbell’s pork and beans out of the can for breakfast.

When I was a kid, my grandfather and I would drive up to Lake Tarpon from St. Petersburg to fish for bream—worms and cane poles for the fishing, the beans for our early breakfast. I think we always caught a few good-sized ones and sometimes a bucketful.

Two most vivid memories are of my grandfather chuckling as I kept dangling a worm in front of a bream on her nest and on another occasion his thrashing at a moccasin with his net. I think he chopped down more brush than inflicting any harm on the snake.

After a few hours, if that long, we’d come back home and out would come the black skillet and with it the best part of those days—even as I loved fishing back then—eggs and bacon and fried bream and grits.

Fishing and food. And food. And food. Yep, pretty much.

Nope, no recipe for the beans, etc. Nope, no resolutions.

No longer absurd to speak of 2020—sounds ridiculous, but it is within hailing distance, and more outrageously the Social Security folks calculate having me around until 2036. Certainly don’t want to disappoint on that front.

Bundle up, hug the kids, and take good care of yourself.

Yours, srk

Hoppin Scotch

Dear Maria,

Happy New Year! That first, of course. The roses bloomed—not much of a surprise—and are still alive and, well we shall see. The birds have been mobbing the feeder, and the female bluebird returned to the condo yesterday. Weeds are nicely green—my neighbor mowed her grass again, but I think that is only because she adores her new riding mower. The kind I might get if I had several acres or more to tend. Maybe some machine envy, but misplaced.

My roses are puny compared to what I see around town, but they are an experiment in less sun and so I am partial to their show. All the new ones in the ground at Publix are blooming with multiple flowers. They replaced the cypress trees that you may remember. Those trees were never a great choice for the space, but now the roses will thrive and make for a better landscape—well, too much of a word there, but you know what I mean.

While in the store yesterday, I nearly walked into the buggy of a former colleague. As matter of the chitchat, she asked if I would be making Hoppin John. “No” I answered. Or should have answered. What I really said was “No, just my own concoction”.

“You should make Hoppin John.”

“I’m making Hoppin Scotch.” Witty me.

“What’s that?”

Hoppin’ nothing, but here we go. “Field peas, snaps, onion, bell pepper, chicken broth, kielbasa, a bit of left over marinara, garlic, rice, and a tablespoon of scotch for good luck.”

“That’s not Hoppin John.” At that point I wanted to go back to square one: She asked, I did say no.

“Nope.”

“I don’t know what kind of luck that will get you.”

Well, I thought, you do that voodoo that you do so well, and I will conjure as I conjure. Besides, how many times have I said that luck’s got nothing to do with it. Whether I believe that or not is another question. Please, don’t ask.

So I have my pot of Hoppin Scotch, and we have a new year upon us—though I think our little wind-ups on the calendar like birthdays and the advent of a new year not much more than some accounting notice. I know, just check the Other box.

Yes, I brought it to a boil. Yes, I simmered it for a good bit. Yes, I put scotch in—about a tablespoon. Had to. A matter of conscience. Might throw in some green peas, too. At the last minute—like them to have that little pop. Maybe not.

As for you and your kin, here’s hoping for a fantastic year ahead.

Yours, yours, and yours, srk