Back to the Drear

The clouds came back, thick and gray.  They brought the freezing fog with them and it collected on the Slinkys on the birdfeeder crooks.  It also snowed for a few minutes but didn't really do more than a dusting.

 

This is the prompt book I got from Lala for Christmas and this blank page is where the sonnet goes. I am not going to share one word of that sorry piece of writing with you.  Suffice to say that a night in timeout did nothing to improve it. 

Today's recipe was Chicken Breast Pierre.  It has Worcestershire sauce, powdered mustard, brown sugar, butter, and celery seed in the tomatoes.  It smelled amazing, so amazing that I was happy to find the last serving of the previous Investment Cooking's batch in the fridge so I had it for supper.  And that concludes this bout of Investment Cooking.  I have 44 servings of supper all lined up tidy in the freezer.  I have a few more servings left to finish and then I'll start on these new ones.  It's kind of a pain to do this every six weeks but it sure makes life easy.

Our next art assignment is to make a rug.  Yeah, right.  I'm not going to cut up fabric into strips and finger knit an area rug.  Not doing it.  But I did find a pattern for a mug rug (aka coaster) so I dug out some yarn this afternoon and crocheted a couple of them.  I like 'em, especially the autumn colors one.  I might have to make more.   It isn't cheating to use a pattern (she says defensively) since there's directions in the art book on rug making.  They say to gather a group of friends and all sit around to make a rug.   Sounds like something you'd do at camp.

At tonight's knitting guild social knitting Zoom, I finished the hand of the second mitten.  Now all I need to do is knit the thumb and finish weaving in the tails and I'll have a pair of good wool mittens for the next time I need to blow snow.

06 January--Barbara Malcolm, The Seaview. 

Chapter 33

            The last mile was over a rutted gravel road with low scrub and cactus lining what would be the shoulder if there was a shoulder.  Iggy's house was on the far end of a cluster of houses that all faced the sea and St. Martin across the narrow passage.  Most of the houses had fences surrounding gardens planted with bougainvillea and fruit trees.  Every yard also boasted a clothesline, most of them with sheets blowing in the wind.

            "This is nice," I said as he slowed the car to pull into his parking spot.

            "We like it," he hesitated, "I mean, I like it."

            It occurred to me that he hadn't had many women here since his wife died.  As we got out of the car and he reached into the back for my overnight bag a voice floated over the fence.  "Good day, Mr. Solomon."

            He looked over his shoulder.  "Good day, Mrs. Whiting."

            He rounded the car, put his hand at the small of my back and said, "Welcome to my home, Rose."  I heard a snort behind us as we crossed the porch  but didn't turn around.

            The house was as neat as a pin, just as I expected, with small rooms and simple furnishings.  Iggy put my case down, showed me the bathroom, and invited me to freshen up while he put the groceries away.  As I walked through the living room on my way to the kitchen there was a knock on the door.  Iggy strode to answer it.

            "Mrs. Whiting, what can I do for you?"

            She pulled the screen door out of his hand and stepped onto the enclosed porch.  "When I saw you arrive, Mr. Solomon, I thought I would bring over a loaf of my homemade coconut bread." She rested her hand on his arm.  "I made it this morning and I know it is your favorite."

            Iggy took the proffered loaf which was wrapped in bright paper and tied with a ribbon.  "Thank you, Mrs. Whiting, I do like coconut bread." He turned to me.  "I would like you to meet my friend,..."

            She interrupted him. "I must go, I am baking a cinnamon cake for the beach party tonight.  We will be sorry not to see you there."  As she said the last words she let the screen door slam behind her.

            Iggy turned toward me, the loaf of bread in his hand and a confused look on his face.  "I wonder why she thinks that I will not be at the party tonight."

            I smiled at him.  "Because she thinks that you won't be there now that I am here."

            He shook his head, then took my elbow and walked me toward the kitchen.  "How about I fix us some lunch and then we go see if the fish are biting?"

            I nodded and asked what I could do to help.  From where I sat at the table chopping celery and scallions I saw another middle-aged woman stroll down the road, slowing as she passed Iggy's house.  She peered at the place as if she could see through the walls.  "Iggy, is Mrs. Whiting a widow?" I asked.

            He nodded.  "Yes, her husband was a fisherman.  He was lost in a storm."

            "That's too bad."  I wondered if the coconut telegraph had sent out word that Iggy had brought someone home with him and if there would be a stream of women coming by.

            As we ate our chicken salad sandwiches on Mrs. Whiting's delicious coconut bread Iggy explained the mysteries of hand-line fishing to me.  I'd never fished with a pole and reel much less just a spool of fishing line held in my hand and I wasn't sure I wanted to catch the pretty colored fish I enjoyed watching while scuba diving.

            We cleaned the dishes and changed into beach clothes.  I asked Iggy to put sunscreen on my back which slowed us down a bit but I got him back on track.  His house faced Savannah Bay and he had carved steps in the low rock bluff down to the water.  There was a narrow strip of sand but he said the best places to catch fish were where it was rocky.  I was glad to have put on reef sandals so I didn't slice up my feet.

Today's toss was another trivia game.  Only two more to go!  I got up before the trash guys came by this morning so I bundled up and got the bins out.  I am happy to report that the driveway wasn't slick.

--Barbara