Oink.

A Fire In The Fireplace.
Sunday was just a stunning day. It was cool in the morning, but the air was still and the sun was quickly warming it. The day before, I had purchased a new chiminea of sorts and eight potted mums the color of pumpkins. We have had a chiminea, a kind of terra cotta fireplace shaped like a light bulb, for years. We never bring them in so eventually they crack and break. We normally get about two seasons out of them and this year was our second year. It was shot.

For a couple of years now, I've been eyeing up a different kind of outdoor fireplace at a local garden center. It's basically a big cast iron bowl on a base of legs. It's an open design that more closely resembles a campfire than a traditional chiminea. I liked it for a number of reasons. First, more than one person can enjoy it at a time. The downside of the chiminea is that unless you are the one sitting in front of the opening, you don't really get the effect. The upside is they kick out a tremendous amount of heat. Our new fire-pit is low and round and open, so everyone sitting nearby gets to enjoy it. It's more like camping. The second thing I liked about it is that it's cast iron. I'm hoping it will last a lot longer. It should, it cost 150% more.

Saturday night, I'd had a pretty roaring fire for most of the night. It was beautiful. Before I retired inside, I put two pretty big logs on the top. Sunday morning I awoke at 8am and went outside to find the fire still smoldering. I threw a couple of logs on top and within minutes the fire was going again. Nice.

This Little Pig Went To Market.
So, back to Sunday. The fire was going. I had a fresh cup of coffee and sat smoking cigarettes and reading Gourmet Magazine. I simply couldn't have been happier. Later in the morning, Ricky came out with his guitar and serenaded me as I read. I was reading an article about a pork purveyor from Tennessee who is somewhat famous in professional chef circles, particularly in New York. It reminded me how Jane had surprised me recently with the intention of raising pigs again. After our last go around with the pigs, I didn't really think she was interested. I was thrilled. I love having them. I love the quality of the meat we get. But, realistically, she's the one who has to raise them. I'm just gone too much, leave very early in the morning and get home too late.

So there Ricky and I sat, me reading, him playing guitar. The sun was warm, the air still and the fire crackled nicely. Ricky ran inside and I decided to walk back and look at our old pig pen. It was a wreck. I grabbed the loppers and started whacking. Within minutes it looked doable. I went inside and called Ricky. He came wearily, wondering what mischief I was going to get him involved in. He almost collapsed in relief when I didn't ask him to mow the lawn but rather announced that we were going to rebuild the pen, and get pigs.

"Today?" Ricky asked.

I answered yes. Today, if we hurried. He was in. I changed clothes, grabbed some tools from the shed and we began demolition of the old pig pen. Soon, Jane, Bern and the girl arrived and everyone wanted to get into the act. I realized I needed some help and called Bob, who rose from the comfort of his sofa and agreed to help. It was his only day off for the week, and still he was up for a little adventure.

Unable to find the pig farmer's phone number (we had bought our last pigs from him), Ricky and I jumped into my car (the Audi) and took off to find out if our man did indeed have pigs. Ricky hesitated, wondering if we shouldn't take Julia's truck. His argument was that if he had some, we should be prepared, but I think his real reason is he didn't think it was appropriate to go pig wrangling in a TT.

We found the farm, Krogman's, and sure enough, there he was, cranky as ever. After some thought, he agreed to sell us a few pigs. We promised to call when we were ready and sped off.

Back home, we finished clearing the area, and figuring out a new setup. The last pigs had unwittingly unearthed an old well and we were trying to figure out how to reinforce the area, when someone came up with the idea to start the pen farther back and simply avoid the well altogether. I had already been toying with the idea of wrapping the pen around the back of the chicken coop, in a sort of L-shape, so the idea suited me fine. We had a plan.

What we didn't have was a Bob. Bob was waiting for his wife to come home with his truck, and since we couldn't afford to wait, Julia sped off to retrieve him.

Bob soon arrived and I explained my plan. Bob, Ricky and I then left for Home Depot for supplied. We needed posts, heavy tacks, a sheet of plywood and heavy wire fencing. The wire fencing would have to come from Smeltzer's, but everything else was attainable at the old Depot.

Our materials loaded up, we had one more stop. We needed something to put the pigs in once we picked them up. Bern had a carrier that their dog Roxie had flown over in from Switzerland. We sized it up and decided it would do.

Once home, Bob pointed out that we were going to lose daylight pretty fast and that we should send the kids to pick up the pigs while we got to work rebuilding the pen. I had screwed up and bought eight foot 4x4's instead of twelve foot ones. I planned to cut them in half to get two posts each, but I needed six foot lengths (two feet in the ground leaving a four foot post) and had simply miscalculated. Never fear, Bob was here. I had a six foot 6x6' left over from building the outdoor shower, and Bob set about cutting it in half to make two 3x6's. Meanwhile, I set about digging the post holes.

When you haven't been doing much in the way of physical labor, you forget how much work digging post holes is. Especially if you're digging in root-covered earth. My arms were soon rubbery and I was sweating. But if Bob was going to take his single day off to help me, I was not about to complain.

I was working on the last of my post holes when Julia and Ricky showed up with the pigs in tow. Julia crinkled up her nose and commented that Mr. Krogman, our local pig farmer, was not the friendliest sort, but that she had gotten the pigs. I reminded her that he was a pig farmer. What did she expect.

The pigs were small, dirty, utterly adorable, and crammed into a small dog carrier. We carried them back to the garden where we had decided they could run around until we finished building the pen. As is the way with pigs, I have learned from experience, they were hesitant to leave the carrier, but once out, scurried and rooted about the garden happily, while Bob and I got back to work.

As usual, Margot wanted to help in the worst way and was constantly under foot. Bob and I tried to hold our tongues, but every time you turned around she would be inches behind you and we were often using saws, swinging hammers, and other implement of destruction and we were afraid she was going to get seriously injured. We scolded her, and while she sulked embarrassed, she only moved another foot away from us. She was not about to miss any of this.

Ricky joined in now and with all the posts cut, and the holes dug, we began placing the posts and filling them in. Once they were all in, it was time to nail the fencing in. We were quickly losing light and needed to finish quickly.

Earlier in the day, I had actually thought we might be able to put up the fence as well as build a quick shelter. As usual I was woefully mistaken. We were going to be lucky to get the fence up and the pigs in before dark.

Everyone helped and soon the pen was ready. Now, all we had to do was grab the pigs and move them into their new home. Last time we did this, I don't remember it being such a big deal. Of course, the first time, there was only one pig, and we had cornered him into a small section of the garden, not the entire run of it. The second time, we used the same pen and I think we just transferred them directly into it.

Regardless, catching the piglets proved a little trickier than I had anticipated. I spent the better part of ten minutes chasing them all over the garden with no luck. Then Julia showed up and within two minutes had grabbed a piglet by the hind legs and was carrying it to the pen leaving me to wallow in shame. I regained my composure and proved myself worthy again by snatching the last piglet up and carrying him off. Both pigs scurried away from us and looked at us in disgust like we'd just insulted their mother, but they soon snuggled up in the straw we had piled in the corner and settled in for the night. It had been a stressful afternoon for them and a tiring one for us. Bob and I cleaned up the tools, grabbed a rum and relaxed by the fire for a smoke. It was actually Bern's 45th birthday and we were celebrating with a big Thanksgiving-style dinner: turkey with all the trimmings.

Bob and I finished off the day with overflowing plates of turkey, garlic mashed potatoes, candied sweet potatoes, stuffing, gravy, broccoli, and hot buttered rolls. We removed our shoes and watched Sunday afternoon football in front of the large-screen TV.

It had been a good day.

The Iceberg Theory

all the food critics hate iceberg lettuce.
you'd think romaine was descended from
orpheus's laurel wreath,
you'd think raw spinach had all the nutritional
benefits attributed to it by popeye,
not to mention aesthetic subtleties worthy of
verlaine and debussy.
they'll even salivate over chopped red cabbage
just to disparage poor old mr. iceberg lettuce.

i guess the problem is
it's just too common for them.
it doesn't matter that it tastes good,
has a satisfying crunchy texture,
holds its freshness,
and has crevices for the dressing,
whereas the darker, leafier varieties
are often bitter, gritty, and flat.
it just isn't different enough, and
it's too goddamn american.

of course a critic has to criticize;
a critic has to have something to say.
perhaps that's why literary critics
purport to find interesting
so much contemporary poetry
that just bores the shit out of me.

at any rate, i really enjoy a salad
with plenty of chunky iceberg lettuce,
the more the merrier,
drenched in an italian or roquefort dressing.
and the poems i enjoy are those i don't have
to pretend that i'm enjoying.

- Gerald Locklin

At Least

I want to get up early one more morning,
before sunrise. Before the birds, even.
I want to throw cold water on my face
and be at my work table
when the sky lightens and smoke
begins to rise from the chimneys
of the other houses.
I want to see the waves break
on this rocky beach, not just hear them
break as I did all night in my sleep.
I want to see again the ships
that pass through the Strait from every
seafaring country in the world-
old, dirty freighters just barely moving along,
and the swift new cargo vessels
painted every color under the sun
that cut the water as they pass.
I want to keep an eye out for them.
And for the little boat that plies
the water between the ships
and the pilot station near the lighthouse.
I want to see them take a man off the ship
and put another up on board.
I want to spend the day watching this happen
and reach my own conclusions.
I hate to seem greedy-I have so much
to be thankful for already.
But I want to get up early one more morning, at least.
And go to my place with some coffee and wait.
Just wait, to see what's going to happen.

- Raymond Carver

Cows

"To my mind, the only possible pet is a cow. Cows love you. They are harmless, they look nice, they don't need a box to crap in, they keep the grass down, and they are so trusting and stupid that you can't help but lose your heart to them. Where I live in Yorkshire, there's a herd of cows down the lane. You can stand by the wall at any hour of the day or night, and after a minute the cows will all waddle over and stand with you, much too stupid to know what to do next, but happy just to be with you. They will stand there all day, as far as I can tell, possibly to the end of time. They will listen to your problems and never ask a thing in return. They will be your friends forever. And when you get tired of them, you can kill them and eat them. Perfect."

~ Bill Bryson, Neither Here Nor There.

David Sedaris

We were sitting in the back yard on lawn chairs. It was early Spring and our bodies were hungry for the sun, having spent so much of the winter indoors. I had a stack of books and was reading, while Jane was content to close her eyes and soak up the sun. I had heard of a new book called Naked; a series of essays, many of them purported to be funny, and had picked it up at the library. I was reading and laughing till Jane asked what was so funny. I began reading aloud and soon Jane was doubled over in laughter. The author was David Sedaris and we were in love.

"The dinner hour became either unbearable, or excruciating, depending on my mood. 'Methinks, kind sir, most gentle lady, fellow siblings all, that this barnyard fowl be most tasty and succulent having simmered in its own sweet juices for such a time as it might take the sun to pass, rosy and full fingered across the plum colored sky for the course of a twilight hour. Tis' crisp, yet juicy this plump bird. Satisfied in the company of such finely roasted neighbors. Hear me out fine relations, and heed my words. For me thinks it adverterous and fanciful too, to saddle mine fork with both fowl and carrot at the exact same time, the twin juices blending together in a delicate harmony which doth cajole and enliven the tongue in a spirit of unbridled merriment. What say ye, fine father, sisters, and infant brother too? That we raise our flagons high in celebration of this hearty feast. Prepared lovingly and with tender grace by this dutiful woman we have the good fortune to address as our wife, wench or mother. '"
- David Sedaris, "The Drama Bug"


Tonight we are seeing David Sedaris live for the second time in less than a year. The first time was in NYC at Town Hall. It was springtime in New York and it was glorious. It was unseasonably warm and the entire city came out.

It's now fall; a perfect fall day in fact. It's been raining for the last several days, but today it's cool, still and sunny. The leaves are only just starting to turn, but autumn is definitely here. Pumkins and corn stalks. Mums and hay bales.

Bernadette is coming with us, and Jessica is watching the girls. We're leaving in a couple of hours, so we can enjoy the day in the city. We have dinner reservations at 5:45pm at El Vez, hotel arrangements at the Loews Philadelphia, and theatre tickets at the Kimmel Center.

But, as excited as we are, there is a part of me that wishes we were sitting in our own backyard, reading David Sedaris, with a fire burning in the chiminea.

Happiness and a Plunger

I heard this poem recently. It was read aloud by none other than Garrison Keillor. It reminded me of how often we get so caught up in what's practical, we forget to allow for a little happiness.



Coconut

Bear with me
I want to tell you
something about
happiness
it's hard to get at
but the thing is
I wasn't looking
I was looking
somewhere else
when my son found it
in the fruit section
and came running
holding it out
in his small hands
asking me what
it was and could we
keep it it only
cost 99 cents
hairy and brown
hard as a rock
and something swishing
around inside
and what on earth
and where on earth
and this was happiness
this little ball
of interest beating
inside his chest
this interestedness
beaming out
from his face pleading
happiness
and because I wasn't
happy I said
to put it back
because I didn't want it
because we didn't need it
and because he was happy
he started to cry
right there in aisle
five so when we
got home we
put it in the middle
of the kitchen table
and sat on either
side of it and began
to consider how
to get inside of it

- Paul Hostovsky

They were in Home Depot. Jane, Jessica, and Ricky. No one seems to remember why they were there, but at one point, while walking down the plumbing aisle, no doubt just crossing through, Ricky came upon the toilet plungers. Something struck him and he picked up a small plunger, almost toy-sized, and began putting it against his stomach, then his head and face. He began impersonating Jim Carrey, fighting the plunger for control.

'Can I get this?' Ricky asked. It cost less than $3. Jane agreed and they finished shopping, Ricky amusing himself with his plunger. Later, in the car, Ricky asked if they could stop for ice cream and without thinking, Jane said, "Come on Ricky, it's never enough. I just bought you a plunger!"

Everyone in the car laughed. Especially Jane. And then they went for ice cream.

We still have that plunger, no doubt tucked away with the rest of Ricky's toys, in the attic, as he is now too old to play with them. But it always reminds me to think about my answer before I give it. I would have said no to the plunger. Because I didn't want it. Because we didn't need it. And because, most likely, I wasn't happy.