Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Every time it rains our new lawn becomes a new bayou. Puddles form everywhere until the whole damn place is just one puddle, a great lake. This probably has to do with the thick clay consistency of the soils in this part of the world, the fact that where once stood cities used to be the bottom of a glacier that once melted, once receded, once left five giant interconnected puddles that some have called inland oceans, some have called the third coast, some have called a perfect place to build a factory, some have filled with rust. The beavers come up from the stream out back and they don't know if they should walk or swim or go on strike, even the small mammifers round these parts long ago joined the wobblies and are now just waiting for capitalism's other shoe to DROP. Rain falls and the water keeps building up around the foundation and I get the vague sensation of what it must feel like to be underwater with your mortgage, drowning. Eventually this will pass. Either the sun will come out and the clay will crack. Or we'll be halfway underwater. In which case we'll have to plant some rice. Don Butterfield's tuba on Monk's "Nutty" will surely help us watch it grow.
Suggested Wine Pairing: Let's not get too fancy with this one, but somewhere definitely south: Grilos Vinho Tinto (Touriga/Tinto Roriz/Alforcheiro), Dão, Portugal, 2007.