Success is a word that is personally defined. If my supposition is correct, yesterday, I met the criteria.
I rose, but the shining took a concerted effort—two cups, full. The chores were standard; none were completed at a record pace.
Several stacks of shingles left over from the roofing job had to be stored away or at least out of sight. They found their way to the lumber pile, where they would wane away the days holding down the tarp.
Everything has a place.
Even though the stacks of moisture-holding shingles would have provided better service to the several salamanders who had taken up residence beneath them, I moved my amphibious friends to new homes without charging a fee.
In the interest of the lungless little rascals, four (in total) Eastern red-backed salamanders were transported— by hand— to several rocky outcroppings near the shore. They slithered away, pleased for more moisture, safety, and, hopefully, a better selection of the creatures they consume to keep up their strength.
I am not a botanist, biologist, or neophyte fan of slithering stuff. Still, I knew where salamanders lived and moved them near the comrades I’d recently seen living in similar conditions while I moved a few rocks to support my waterline. I hope they all can get along; Lord knows the rest of us cannot.
I filled the wood box with split hardwood for my imminent return in the coming days, and not unlike MacArthur, the cuffs of my jeans appeared soaked from the recent rehoming project. I suspect the water here is colder than in the Philippines. I shall return.
I digress.
I unlawfully burned a couple of bales of straw that I’d raked up from my neverending lawn rejuvenation project. My sister, Google, advised that the new seeds needed to find their way into direct contact with the dry, lifeless soil where the previously sown seeds had sadly sat in sunshine but no rain, but I already knew that. I sought her advice because it made her feel like she was involved.
I watered it again, hoping the cold nights, warm days, and increasing moisture in the form of fog would light this horticultural candle by next spring. Snow is coming, so I expect no miracles before May. The falling leaves will provide plenty of coverage as they dampen and adhere to the earth until spring removal.
By dinner, I checked my pile of thawed goods and found softened steak and scallops, both very old but soon cooked over charcoal.
The seafood came out better than expected, as I used my mid-20s-derived Griswold #3 cast iron skillet on the cooler side of the charcoal. I don’t know if the scallops appreciated the cooking method, but I did.
I love dainty cast iron skillets. I don’t know why. They feel more personal, like those pan pizzas we all lauded in the eighties. It was as if we were kings being personally served by the pizza princes in the Hut’s kitchen, making us something special.
When I felt too full to eat another bite, the lovely Anna from Tan Gables stopped by with homemade macaroni and cheese in Pyrex. She’s been threatening to bake some for me, and she came through.
Last night, at eight o’clock, in defiance of dietary concerns, I removed the cover to check if it had cooled enough to have a taste. It had. I did.
It was elegant.
I’ll finish it before I pack up the truck and head home later today. I still have some steak and it’ll be a fine finish to a few days at camp.
I took several photos, none remarkable, but worthy of drawing attention from the masses who still read the ‘Facebooks.’ I’ll make sure to leave them below.
No, I am not asking Anna for her recipe; I don’t believe it’s written down. Maine girls are like that.
From the Jagged Edge of America, I remain,
TC
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