We went out for a breakfast this morning. High Falls seems to have enough hungry people to sustain two or three thoughtful, distinct breakfast eateries. Monday around 10:00AM, we had the High Falls Kitchenette to ourselves. I had steak and eggs and grits and it was delicious. The little one was raving about her grilled cheese and sweet potato fries. We’d been at the Egg’s Nest across the street, only ten days or so back. They’re both wonderful, I’m happy to report, this one light, open, a bit austere. The other dense, with every corner sprouting visual candy. Both worth your time. I’ll return to both.
But we were in a different mood this week. We’d snuck out. The lady of the house preferers we call-off all non-essential engagement with the outside world. Breakfast at the High Falls Kitchenette cannot intelligently be defined as “essential.” But it’s good to get out of the house and talk (from behind my mask, mind you,) about what it is my little girl would like to do when she grows up. And idle chat about the café she’d like to open is a rare sprout, something to be nurtured and treasured. Precisely what I risked the cordon sanitaire for.
Only two days ago I wouldn’t have dreamt of bike riding without gloves, a sweater and a coat. Today simply a sweater was too much. It’s warm. It’s spring. Ta dah. But wait, I wasn’t really done with winter. That was winter? I mean, there was some snow. It snowed some. But, that’s all we get? I am firmly grounded in the notion that this is a mirage and somewhere around March 15th there will be a blizzard. A bit more snow, please. I’m recently returned and this was underwhelming.
Today, geez, it may as well have been April. I drove up north on the trail and saw a big, fat ground hog waddling up the rocks. It did not appear to be a day to return hibernatory. After crossing of Old Huguenot Street, the path becomes desolate and wooded, and beyond one hill the trail passes a swampy pond that was frozen most of the winter but is now a chorus. Frogs! A remarkable Woodstock of frogs. Considering the season, thoughts of bees, and of birds one imagines this can only but be a collective chorus of: “expletive me. “I must expletive you.” . . . amplified towards frog stadium volumes. I am on thin ice suggesting insights into frog psyche, but you know what? I’d say all the frogs, were getting off on the fact that all of known frog-dom had chosen this particular time and place to get off, right now, too. I just stood there are marveled at the frog triumphalism. Fuck on.
Monday, 03/09/20
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