While I was doing the dishes last night, it took me a few moments to realize there wasn’t a storm coming through but the night coming down. Morning breaks later. The wind’s picked up; and please don’t mention the leaves. My days will be full of raking soon enough. For whatever reason, I find myself staring out of windows and wanting to write poems. If I wasn’t so impatient, this post would have been a poem. But I need to pick up J from school and go to the bank and move the laundry to the drier. Not that that’s any kind of excuse. I mean, what’s more important than poetry?
Saturday, I bought a quart of plums for no other reason than the way they were piled up in a green paper carton. I was imagining what they’d look like in a white bowl when the woman at the fruit stand bagged them and asked for $2.78. Not bad, I thought. Even better when turned into gooey plum cobbler—the kind with big globs of golden biscuit. We ate half of it last night for dessert. I ate another quarter of it before bed. Gabriel and I proceeded to finish it off for breakfast.
Along these same lines, I was enthralled by some leftover potatoes I was frying up for lunch yesterday. When it comes to simple food, I don’t know what’s better than a good fried potato. All it takes is a little butter and strong heat. And see the blue ones!—like tiny planets sliced open, their marrow glistening. So I fried up Jupiter in a skillet. What’s luckier than that? I know how Jupiter tastes!