Placki Kartofane

Potato Pancakes

8 large potatoes, peeled , cut up and grated
1 large onion cut up and grated
1 egg
3 tablespoons flour
Salt
1/3 cup bacon drippings

The book is a gift from the high school library staff to my mother at her retirement after 43 years as an English teacher. Inside the front cover is an affirmation- May you have many years of health,happiness and time to try every recipe in this book.
My cooking skills are a direct result of my mother's inability to cook. An early memory is my mother standing at the stove struggling with Mac n' Cheese. I was encouraged by my Polish foster parents to cook. Both were artists, each in their own way. I remember Ma and Pa bragging that as soon as I was tall enough to reach the stove with the aid of a stool, I learned to fix eggs. I give you the basic recipe so the accomplished chefs out there reading this drivel will not blame me when something goes horribly wrong. When the house is filled with smoke, the kitchen buried in dirty dishes and the dog won't eat what you drop on the floor.
I follow Dawn out to the garage. She's on her way to work and I'm going to get potatoes stored in the soap studio. The thermometer on the garage reads below zero. The LED thermometer in the soap studio reads in the thirties. Cursing ensues. I choose four small russet potatoes. Russets are a drier potato, used locally for making Lefse. I wash the potatoes, but I don't peel and cut them up. There are vitamins in the peel. I grate until the spuds are dangerous small nubs. Then I peel four small onions and slice them. We have a Pampered Chef vegetable chopper. I pound away at the chopper until the onion slices are reduced to a fine mess, saving my knuckles. If you forget to toss the onion peels before putting coffee in the microwave, you'll have the wind from the microwave fan blowing skins across the counter. To the potato/onion mix I add two eggs. They're pullet eggs. The shells are as tough as pigskin. I invariably drop a shell into the mix. More cursing. Next, I add two tablespoons of unbleached flour. You may choose whole wheat or any one of a dozen other kinds of flour. I grabbed the bag in first bag in the front of the cabinet.
Here's where a deranged cook goes astray. The fire department hauls him away to Mystic Acres on a gurney. Forget the salt despite the capital "S" in the recipe. In the instructions, the description of salt is that of a seasoning. Mistrusting a 1968 cookbook, I consult Craig Claiborne's New York Times Cookbook. He adds baking soda. Me, I add baking powder. The rationale-fluffy potato pancakes. Bacon drippings? My step dad says they'd save the tail from a butchered hog to grease the skillet. Foregoing a heart attack at age 59 like my Dad, I pour two tablespoons of Pomace oil into a stainless steel skillet. Pomace oil is a cheaper version of olive oil made from leftover crushed olives ( I leave it to you to get the detailed description). I choose stainless steel because it heats faster. Cast iron is better.
The instructions say to cook the pancake at high heat after you drop three dollops in the pan and flatten them. I drop two dollops into a heap and flatten the heap. There is no room for another pancake. Forget the high heat, too. Claibourne says to use bacon fat OR butter. At position "2" out of seven settings on my gas stove, the living room has a purple haze wafting across the room. I have not been smoking.
My recipe makes four large pancakes and one medium sized cake. The original recipe says, ..."serves six. Serve with mushrooms and salad ." I forage in the basement for an '05 half pint of apple butter. People told me it tastes more like apple sauce. You may want to garnish with something less than 3 years old.

Oh, So What!

I wrestle with the Devil. The personal supreme spirit of evil , according to Merriam-Webster. Twenty years ago a person hands me a business card. We're in a bar. I do not know the person nor do I remember why he handed me the card. Perhaps, I had bored him to death. It was a white embossed card with only these words: Oh so what who gives a s**t. I held onto the card until it was tattered and then gave it away to someone who bored me to tears. I've gone from boredom to the blahs. Then, sick of winter is followed by really tired of bitter cold, cabin fever, manic depression, winter weary and now, Oh so what...It could only be followed by, Why Bother!

Even cheerful Marion at the grocery store who clucks whenever she sees me, asks the same question; Have you been subbing much? and finally scrunches up her face in her red pinched way and bemoans; I'm tired of winter. The feeling gets in the way of writing. Then a bright light, like the LED trouble lights I've been buying for the 82 year old librarian in Readstown-bent from an automobile accident 30 years ago, fingers curled from arthritis; Write what you know. Blame it partially on Gabriel Garcia Marquez.

Love In The Time Of Cholera , a crazy juxtaposition, is filled with lovely descriptions, haunting metaphors, unreal images -every other line could be the title of a book or short story. "...Unfaithful but never disloyal." "She had a legendary career as a courtesan who deserved her nom de guerre, "Our Lady of Everybody." ..."All that remained of her on the moonlit roofs was a fluttered farewell with a white handkerchief like a solitary sad dove on the horizon." Write what you know.

I know a kitchen in an old remolded schoolhouse. I know the farm folks were short on cash. Vernon County is second only to its neighboring county for being the lowest in per capita income . Cheap paneling abounds. Z-brick, a fancy substitute for real brick lines the walls above the splash block of the counter. Why in heavens name would anyone use Z-Brick in a kitchen. The abrasive surface is impossible to clean. The final blow- a textured plaster over cellulose ceiling tiles. Again, impossible to clean. !@#$ farmers.

The Pooch is out of cat treats. He's riding high on our list of heroes when he catches a mouse in the kitchen. I surmise that he found the fat, furry rodent in the basement. Then again, there are two holes in the plywood over studs behind the cabinets. There's a wire for the range hood jutting out from the wall. The Pooch investigates the wire nuts on the white cable sticking out of the wall.He looks up at the hole in the corner between the ceiling and sidewall. Mice highways. A labyrinth of tunnels. A trip to the grocery is part of a careful system of stops from here to the small town 18 miles away.

First, to the library to deliver LED trouble lights. I chuckle, thinking that the librarian is putting a little light into every one's life at the darkest time of the year. She's very clever and a real pistol at 82. Janie tells me, " I got a clean bill of health from the doctor." She describes various tests including a bone density test. "I've got the bones of a 50 year old,"she says. "Hmmm, hmmm," she hums constantly and writes me a check for five rechargeable lights and asks me to keep an eye out for DVD movies for the library. After the grocery store, I head toward Richland Center and the Amish. There are a few missing dimensions on the cabinet plans.

I'd stopped at the farm before I left for town. Monday is laundry day and the daughters are busy sewing and ironing. The Mrs. has socks hanging outside and more laundry on the door of the wood kitchen stove. I ask, " When are you making bread again?" She looks at the clothes in the oven and jokes about them. "Friday," she says. I ask for one white and one brown. The Mr. is off butchering a cow. He'll be back by 4 PM. When I return, Titus is driving a creaking iron wheeled wagon. In the wood sided wagon is a tarp and a meat saw. "Got any hamburger?" I ask. He says his brothers have all the meat. He gets the hide which he will sell. Although the winds is biting, he's dressed in a thin denim coat and straw hat. No gloves and rubber boots. We go inside to check dimensions. The youngest daughter is at the vinyl covered table arranging pictures of animals. I point out a missing dimension on a side cabinet. The plans for my cabinets are in the wood shop, but to save Titus another trip outside, I tell him,"I'll be back on Friday for bread." I write him a note. Check dimensions of cabinet on left side of refrigerator. I recount an episode from my teaching days about written excuses and cite an example from Frank McCourt who wrote of his days as a teacher in NYC. Frank turned a drawer full of thirty year old excuses inherited from a retired teacher into a writing lesson. The most memorable challenge: Write an excuse for Hitler. Then, I remind Titus I'll be back at the end of the week and drive off to give the Pooch his treats.

Dead Slow

from 27 February 2006

Please Note: Differences in font and font size are problems with translation from Microsoft Word to this excerpt. I did not intend to create a separate style in the first paragraph. In trying to edit the HTML it was so complex, I gave up.

“Twenty one ounces is too much beer for a dwarf,” the novel says. John Irving’s Son of a Circus. No that’s not correct. A Son of the Circus. I have to go back to check the title. Drink another sip of coffee. The Indian names are confusing. I have difficulty with them because there’s father and son. Which Duwalla is he talking about? The routine is the same. I have another book to accompany me during the day. Fondle it during the light hours. Take it to bed with me. Carry it downstairs in the morning. Vampires, East Indian doctors, Australian Bushmen. Some are more precious. I dole the words out.

I toss a paper bag from the hardware store down the steps to the basement. There’s a smell of wood smoke. Should I check it out? Too lazy. I close the back door Dawn left open and turn off the outside light. I left Frank McCourt in the bathroom. He sits on top of a J.C. Penny’s catalog, the Farmer's Almanac and Newsweek. I turn another two pages of Teacher Man.

Dead slow is written on a sign at the entrance to the exclusive Duckworth Club. They install speed bumps. Dr. Duwalla- I have changed his name because I can neither remember the word nor spell the same-sits at a table sipping a Kingfisher beer. I sip my coffee thinking about the speed bumps on Kickapoo Center Lane. Each time Jeff comes thru with the plow, he creates another mound of gravel and snow when he backs up near the end of our dead end lane. He turns into the drive to the barn which is really a shed, knocks over a sign and drives out. If the snow is deep, he’ll make another pass on his way out. If it’s icy, he’ll hit the button to the sand spreader. The speed bumps turn into a solid mass of ice.

I took the weekend off. Instead of a 4:45 wake up, I’m out of bed at first light. If I didn’t have to pee, I’d sleep longer. Taking the weekend off means, I will not work on any project that fits into a definition of work. I will not fill gaps at the roof of the shed with foam insulation. I will not cut fiberglass to seal the drafts around the doors. I will not stack and load firewood. I refuse to begin another table or bench. I put off repair to the redwood table sitting in the barn, which is actually a shed. There’s a fine line of distinction when I begin painting the Japanese letters which I am going to glue onto my wood dividing screen. The screen is work. The letters are fun. I cut grooves into pieces of pine molding and insert a square piece of Luan in each of the three squares. After a few mindless steps, I dribble plaster on a traced outline of the Japanese words, TRUTH, Prosperity and Retreat. The words are in maroon, the frames black. I can’t sell these individually because they take so much time. If I fine-tune the process, I’ll get bored after the first eight hundred. Hobby Lobby sells versions of double happiness for $6.95. I choose words that are so complex I cannot make a simple wood cutout.

Next, I begin constructing a shallow nicho for a painted cross which hangs in our upstairs hallway. I see it when I make the beds. At night, I bump into it on my way to the bathroom. There’s an arc on the wall below the cross from the black paint on the backside. After consulting my design expert, I cut eight-inch wide, weathered Ponderosa Pine boards I carried with us from Arizona. Around the edge of this large flat cross, I make a 1 ½ inch molding. Before I shut down the workshop for the night and help Dawn make a venison jerky pizza, I tape the molding and stain the inside edge red mahogany. While the pizza is baking, I sneak back into the workshop to remove the tape. No matter how much I burnish the tape, there’s always some seepage under the blue scotch tape. Oh, well, it’s part of my process. Surprises in every project. The Japanese letter plaques are slightly warped. Parts of the wood squares will not touch the surface of the screen. I wonder about glue. The Luan screen inserts are supposed to be moisture resistant. Small bubbles appear on one section. Thus ends this dream of simple Japanese screens.

The elder Dr. Duwalla is an atheist. He opines against Gandhi. Images of Christ on the cross should be outlawed as barbaric symbols. He thinks all religions are monsters. He hates the French, priests and Catholics. I take an outsiders view of the piece I’m working on. “Happy” the man who lives down the road and works as partner for the organic farmers, looks at me with suspicion. “What’s with all the crosses?” he asks when he and his partner James come to pick up an old antique bathtub I gifted the farmers. The word weird” “bizarre” and “strange” light up his face like a neon signboard. I think of the image of him drinking flaming shots of Absinthe in the kitchen of the farmhouse. He and his partner smuggle the illegal liquor from Amsterdam. Then there’s the sight (and smell) of a bus ride to their hotel. A street person used a small metal box next to a bridge overpass as a lavatory. Happy sits on the box after walking all over Amsterdam. He notices some mud on his pants. Only after vigorously smearing the mud across the cuffs does he realize: this is feces. Japanese tourists move away from him on the bus. Ah, what is weird, then? I ask.

Years ago, I asked Dawn to paint a version of the crucifixion on a cross. The wood cross is painted a rust red. The surface is a pastel shade of rust. The image of Christ is fuzzy, ethereal and mystical. The image in my mind is translated onto the cross with perfection. It’s one of three favorites. The second is a carton image of sheep jumping on the horizontal part of an antique white cross. On the reverse side of the cross, I wrote the entire words of a black spiritual, called, “Sheep, Sheep don’t know the road.” The song comes from a CD called the Spiritual Tourist. A man chronicles a journey in song. Each song tells of a mystical experience. The liner notes tell of a wonderful luminous light in the windows of this Tennessee church when the choir begins singing. The elder Duwalla is a shallow man. I’m entranced by the art value of the cross. I try not to let the Duwallas ruin my thrill with their cynicism.

Next: Danger lurks in the aisles of Menards.

Umbrage

um*brage n 1:shade 2:resentment, offense(take~at a remark)
"I'm not here to make friends."

I'm repeating a famous quote from the Bulldog. He is a friend(I use the word loosely) I worked along side of for over a year. He sends me a story about a midget( respectfully:a little person) who wants to buy a horse. I can't and won't repeat the story because many people would take umbrage when the little person asks the owner if he can see the horse trot. I laughed. I laughed and laughed.

Surfing blogs, I come across a sad comment by a woman who's images of women breast feeding were removed. The site managers removed them because people took offense.

Nervous Nellies , I call them. I refrain from including excerpts previously written( Pigs In Clover) because the content would offend. I reread the famous escapade of the woodchuck in the barn and file it in the far reaches of my file cabinet. Don't want to offend the PETA folks. I'm reminded daily of the Paranoia in the media when every movie I watch has a disclaimer. The following commentaries do not necessarily represent those of....

Excluding Love in the Time of Cholera, each of the most recent works of fiction I read is prefaced with a disclaimer that the characters and situations are not real. Any resemblance between their work and real people is purely a fig newton of someone's imagination. There I go. I've pissed off the cookie company. So what follows is about a blind person. Visually challenged. Since it was sent to me in an e-mail by the man's wife, I believe that at least the Cook family
(names changed to protect their identity) will not take umbrage.

Don had a very unusual night at the races that Monday. He had a good looking car-not one of the old junkers that blind drivers usually get to drive. So it looked fast and ready to roll. Unfortunately, the guide that went with the car was useless. Don may as well have been in the car alone. The crowd did the verbal countdown to start the race. 5...4...3...2...1...GO! Don starts down the straight-away to the first corner....and...and...and he just keeps going-straight off the racetrack. His guide never told him to turn into the corner. From my viewpoint-Don, guide and car simply disappear from sight. No. Wait. He appears to be driving along the outside edge of the track. I can just see the top of the car over the corner banking of the raceway. Now he's turned a right angle onto the track and coming down the banking...directly into the path of an on-coming car (also driven by a blind driver). T-Boned! Don got hit on his side of the car-but luckily wasn't hurt. But the cars were stuck together and his opponent's car was stalled. End of the race. It wasn't until later, when I told Don what happened that he even knew he went off the track. He also wondered why he was going downhill(coming down the corner banking)since he never experienced that in a race before. His guide never told him where he was or why or anything. Don was extremely disappointed.

Our little township is notorious for the lack of insouciance of even the most mundane matters. Two women present the town with a bill for damage to a fence by the town snowplow. When the town chairman refuses to honor the $500 payment for what he terms- I rephrase his remarks-a rusted tangle of barbed wire; they threaten to damage his reputation and start a recall campaign. The town chairman recounts a time when he was accused of fathering a child of a local woman. He's in his late seventies. We're taking Spanish lessons from the daughter of the former town clerk.For awhile we exchange e-mails with the former town clerk. When she brings a relative to our country store, we treat him with in the usual country friendly manner. In an aside, we learn that she's barely spoken to this relative in the last thirty years over some real or imagined slight. The former town clerk sends me an abrasive e-mail when I describe in a previous e-mail, kissing Marilyn Monroe in a dream.( Marilyn just isn't a very good kisser!) Her obnoxious reply is similar to her reply to Jorge, the town flirt, when she tells him, paraphrased and edited; Are you looking for something more than friendship?

My Ford Woody

Automobiles are an important part of my psyche. Cars have not been an extension of my nether regions like the playboys of the world who have motorcycles, motorboats and fast sports cars. Number one son passes his driver's test. In an image permanently fixed in my brain, Matthew walks in the porch door of our suburban home. He stops a moment and pats his wallet. "Freedom," he says. Then he was promptly pulled over and cited for speeding on the freeway. Hah! I was three years old in this picture, a month before my birthday. My mother, a pack rat, saved everything including the clothes I wore in the picture. When she died, Dawn and I fill a 200 cubic foot dumpster with old Christmas cookie tins, preserved remains of parakeets, pieces of wood, thirty year old homemade elderberry wine, magazines, carpets stored on the second floor of the garage smelling of mouse urine, and even a box of sawdust. It was a disturbing experience.

This is my first vehicle. It wasn't fast but the important thing to remember is that I was mobile. I also rode a silver wheeled wagon with green sides. It doesn't count, because I couldn't propel it myself.
I was too little to do the knee and push maneuver. I graduated shortly thereafter to a tricycle. A red, white and blue scooter was my second car. By the time I was seven, I had a fat tire, 24 inch Schwinn two-wheeler. I learned how to ride it by practicing on my neighbor's 20 inch bicycle. I'm not sure of the correct order, but I learned to drive a car either from Joe Cusson in Northern Minnesota riding on his lap in a 1952 Chevy or when my step dad let me drive the Model T. I had to stand to depress the clutch while Dad operated the shift and the spark. My eldest cried when I took off the training wheels to her 20 inch bicycle. I was dumbfounded. She was traumatized by fear of falling without training wheels. My daughter is about a year and a half in this picture. Thanks to my mother who stored my Ford Woody on the second floor of the garage where mice took turns at the wheel, I was able to restore the Woody to it's original condition. Note the cardboard Ripple wine box.

They came and went. An Oldsmobile with a 4-barrel carburetor and white bucket seats, a Ford Sunliner convertible with glass pack mufflers, a Volkswagen I sold to my ex-brother-in-law that caught fire, an old Volvo that barely ran, a thirties era Chevy that never ran, the four wheel drive Blazer that got me in serious trouble off roading, a Volkswagen bus with blue stars painted on the ceiling, a series of $100 specials that would croak at the most inopportune times and even a Puch motorbike.
Ted and Fred would be miffed if I didn't include them in this epistle. I spend half my life in the more temperate months bouncing around the farm making it "my pretty". We emulate our parents. Making preparations to move out of state, I realized I, too, was a pack rat. My eldest daughter was the recipient. A canoe, thirties era gas cook stove, antique clocks, an Edison gramophone with a cardboard box of cylinder records and pressed back rockers. In my downtown storefront, I proudly displayed my Ford Woody next to a six foot carved eagle. A man who restored old cars including "Woodies" offered me $500 for it. I learn it's worth more. As it was, Dawn and I drove two, 26 foot Penske moving vans filled with our household goods. I left my Ford Woody behind. My hope was that she keep it for a third generation. I never asked for the details, but I know she sold it on Ebay along with three Steiff teddy bears that belonged to my mother-Mama, Papa and baby.

I wrestle with feelings of attachment and non attachment. Jorge, a friend who lives nearby says, "When I'm gone-it's someone else's problem." Jorge is a hermit bachelor. He cried when his golden lab Ben died recently.

Wow

I'm at a loss for words. I believe the cause is getting up at 4:45 am to jump start the two furnaces and drinking a leftover cup of coffee. I have two alternatives. One, is to post previously written excerpts from my non-blogging days. The other-landfill-assorted junk rattling around in my brain. I'm too lazy to transcribe the first. The second disappears in cyberspace when I don't back-up my musings, as my computer warned me in a prompt at the top of the screen. So, I'll just wow you with photos.

An onion harvest

A sheep with a headache at Turkey Ridge organic apple farm

Dale Chihuly glass sculpture in the entrance of the Minneapolis Institute of Arts

A surprise in the woodpile.

Cabinet and Countertops

On Monday the garage thermometer reads -14. When Dawn pulls her car out of the garage for the 18 mile drive to work, I sneak my car in the workshop/garage. I'm hoping that by noon the car will have thawed enough to drive without ( myself and the car included) shaking and squealing. I need to drive to the Amish cabinet maker and confer with him about the birch cabinets I have on order.

It snows every two days. Saturday's snowfall was light. We consult the National Weather Service before attempting the 45 minute drive to The Big City. The radar( whoops I spelled it backwards) image shows a band of light snow in an hourglass shape. By late afternoon, the snow is supposed to dissipate. At 3 PM we're enjoying lunch at Piggy's. Despite the name, Piggy's is elegantly furnished-lots of walnut woodwork, antique chandeliers, comfortable seating, low lights and waitresses dressed in the European fashion. I look outside apprehensively at heavy snow falling.I order a pint of a local craft brew which costs more than the six pack of beer I purchase at the Kwikstop in Readstown. Then again, drinking Pig's Eye Beer-you get what you pay for. You may think I have a pig fetish. Normally, I wouldn't drink anything and attempt an hour's drive back home. I just don't care.

Dawn and I are construction geeks. We have little background in fine carpentry. We're smart enough to make up for the lack of experience. The clerk at the building supplies store tells us he's never heard of tile board. Later we show him where the tile board is kept. His response, " Oh, that's another department." The display of countertops is confusing. We have three choices. Real stone, fake stone and really fake stone. We sort through samples of Formica with a fancy name. The sign tells us that countertops can be ordered in standard widths of 30, 40... Wait! 30 inches wide? That'll cause havoc. The existing countertop is 25 5/8 inches wide.

That's why I need to confer with the cabinet maker. The frequent snowfalls make driving the back road to the Amish farm a white knuckle experience. The first hill is so steep one has to get a running start. There's no guard rails on Moore Road. Sliding off the road would be more than a quick call for a tow truck. I'd have to abandon the car, if I survived, and wait until spring to pull it out of the ravine. So, I take the main roads and avoid hairpin sharp turns and a grade to Shady Lane cabinets designed by the devil himself.

On the US highway, the trees lining School Road are covered with hoarfrost. Leafless, they look like lace creations on a Belgian tablecloth. The cabinet shop is empty. I hope I've timed my visit to avoid interrupting lunch. Off in the distance, I hear chain saws whining. The black and white mutt and the new rust colored puppy are frolicking along the fence line. There are only two daughters in the kitchen. The youngest, a wide eyed 5 year old, is sitting on a chair looking out the window. Another daughter is fixing lunch on the woodstove. I ask for eggs and the cabinet maker. Only the eggs are available. I tell the young lady I'll return in the afternoon.

When I return, Titus comes out of the house in stocking feet and asks me to park my car closer to the house. They're expecting a delivery. The bobtail truck pulls in immediately behind me. I volunteer to help unload the truck. The matriarch of the family tells me in a matter of fact voice, "You know those are 50 pound sacks." I reply, "That's OK. As long as there aren't 5000 bags." Four daughters, the truck driver, Titus and I unload two wrapped palettes of baking and cooking supplies. The daughters and Titus are working barehanded. The breeze on the hilltop is brisk. With characteristic understatement, Titus quips, "Kinda chilly, isn't it." I hold a leather gloved hand to my right ear to ward off frostbite from the biting wind. The driver drops a 50 bag of brown sugar into the crook of the right arm. I boost it to one of the daughters in the old house, turned general store. She grabs it as if it were a feather pillow.

Inside after unloading the bobtail, my glasses immediately steam up. A visiting neighbor says I look like a cartoon figure. Monday is wash day. Inside and on the outside porch, there's household of laundry drying. When another daughter brings in the frozen shirts. they look like flat bodies. "I've got questions. You have answers," I tell Titus. For an hour I learn the basics of cabinetry.

In a sudden flash of inspiration, I ask about the next baking session. I need bread. Viola says, "Just made some this morning." The two loaves she made will last for several days. She volunteers that there will be more bread by Friday. "That's fine," I tell her. I visualize the thick cuts of fresh bread I use for making french toast with their organic eggs. I put off asking her to teach me to make bread. I must first decide if I have the time and the energy to put into bread making. I marvel at the amount of hard work these people perform. Titus reels off a list of afternoon chores and tells Viola it may be too chilly to shuck and grind corn.

Walking back to my car, I notice a snow white goose standing motionless near the old house. "When did they get a goose statute, " I wonder. I'm often surprised at some of the Amish ways. For awhile there was a highway sign posted at the house end of the drive that said, "Parking for turkeys." It looked like any ordinary street sign. I never asked, but assumed it was a gift from English friends. The latest addition to the household is a canary. Goose statues? Then it moves. Perhaps not all the geese became Christmas dinners like ours.

My original intentions were to pick up hardware for a table I am making and then visit the building supplies store in Seneca. There is no such thing as a short visit to the Amish. Almost by design, getting coat and gloves on will not hasten my departure. I'm standing in a large open kitchen next to a hot woodstove fully dressed and sweating. Titus is showing me the underside of his cabinets, suggesting ways for us to operate a temporary kitchen sink ( I complain of having to do dishes in the bathtub), describing the installation of the countertop and a dozen other details. I drive off to the library to drop off a few movies. There's no such thing as a short visit to the library, either.