Edible Too

So, this happened…



Doe and nubby buck fawn. At about 7:30 this a.m. Opening day.

(Extra special heaps of thanks to Bro-in-Lo Canisius for field dressing (two in less than 15 minutes) and helping (OK, mostly by himself) lugging deer out of bottom valley!)

And so, a poem is in order, no?

The Last Hunt

The new snow’s whiteness
Blanks the prayerful bend of the bare-branched trees
Giving them a cold but muscular look.
We cannot see the deer for all the snow.
It was bully-blowing all night, yet meekly lacking,
Clinging to embraced bareness. No warmth
For the trees, and no warmth for us either.

And something gets in behind the grey skies
As if to blow down on us all the souls
Ever risen from the dead. Something old which
Comes back every winter, a habit of wind,
Late day, a shadow’s vows. But soon we see,
In the clean snow, something else. A gunshot
Reports through the valley.

Then, as we walk
Up valley, we suddenly come to a sign
Which our father and uncles may have known,
Learned first through cold tears and piss-cold pants –
Another sign snow cannot hide – and red scarves
Of blood leave tracks which better prepare us
For our own last dash across an open field.



The wife has been busy…




No. Way.

whisky advent calendar


(Yes, please!)


H/T B.L.!

Please, let’s all start saving for 2015

Everyone, keep safe from murderous drifters for the next two years at least so we can ALL be in NOLA for Conference 3: Dear God, Please Let This Happen, Don’t Let Me Have Missed My Last Chance, We Can Go Even Without a Conference, Y’all, Please.

Also, we were supposed to go to that restaurant from Garden and Gun.

Check In


How do you know a cook is worth her salt?


When her recipes are subsumed into the mythos of the domicile.

Some had Julia Child as their mentor. I had Ms. Hazan. And apparently I’m in good company…

(It’s true, too, what she says about the necessity of adding milk to mellow the meat you use to make the Bolognese!)




please sign

Flannery and Me


The New Mexico Nurse (long since transplanted here to La Mesa, where all good people live) was kind enough to email and let me know that the latest issue of the New Yorker magazine carried a collection of excerpts from the grad-school (some place in Iowa?) journal of Flannery O’Connor. The entries are addressed to God. I haven’t read them yet (waiting ’til I can savor), except for the line “Please help me to get down under things and find where You are,” which naturally jumped out at me, and the last bit, which I couldn’t help but notice:

My thoughts are so far away from God. He might as well not have made me. And the feeling I egg up writing here lasts approximately half an hour and seems a sham. I don’t want any of this artificial superficial feeling stimulated by the choir. Today I have proved myself a glutton – for Scotch oatmeal cookies and erotic thought. There is nothing left to say of me.

Isn’t it fun to find you have things in common with one of your heroes? Scratch “oatmeal cookies” and replace “half an hour” with “five minutes,” and it could be me writing that entry! Just not, you know, in the New Yorker.