A Can of Scungili

 

My dad and I had talked about a bike ride up to the Coppersea Distillery this morning.  It’s precisely the point to which I bike every other day or so anyway where the trail crosses the Wallkill River and Springtown Road.  I read a message quickly yesterday where he appeared to cancel, but instead, today he clarified that he still hoped to meet.  But he’d drive, rather than bike.  I invited the Mrs. to join and was assured with a definitive maybe that she ought to be along later.

Columbus Day weekend, the trail was full of people and I wondered if our destination might not be mobbed.  He got there first.  He always does.  I biked along the road and caught him standing there near the head of the parking lot.  I directed him towards the barn in the back where they serve these remarkable sour whiskey slushies.  One woman was before us and a couple came behind, that was it.  We had the back yard where they’ve thrown out some big deck chairs in the field all to ourselves.  And up in the distance, across the meadow and the canopy was a distinct section of the Gunk cliff face. Every once-and-a-while I looked back towards to the parking lot to see if my wife hadn’t surprised me and actually shown up. 

 

I got back home, and settled my bike back the garage.  My wife asked if I was home already and I confirmed that I was.  “I was just about to head out to see you guys.”  We moved furniture instead.  There is life’s load container’s worth of goods in our garage and we are slowly bringing them up to the house.  A big green chair nearly overwhelmed us but by twisting and rotating we finally anchored it there in the living room.  I move books up by the wheel barrow full and I’m perplexed because we’ll fill these shelves up before long and I’m convinced a forth shelf is somehow missing.

 

I tried to make a soup with barley this evening. Two soups, really, as one is for the vegan lass.   I should remember to go easy on barley.  It’s a soup, sorta grain and its chewy and pleasant but it expands and it seemed to take over the main broth to which I’d committed two thirds of the dry barley I had.  At the fish market they had a can of scungili.  That is such a remarkable word, that I bought the can in part so I had a reason to use the word over and over again.  It means conch in Italian, though it sounds like a body part you shouldn't say aloud.  The scungili and the frozen octopus and the stock all tasted good.  But there was too much of that puffed-up barley.

Sunday, 10/11/20