The project manager on Tom's job site decided that the crew needed a day off. So Tom is home, and Paul doesn't have classes today, and I'm on a brief editing hiatus as I wait for the production editor to green-light the sample I sent her. We're pleased to be unscheduled together.

My plan is to start reading the manuscript of a friend's novel--not edit, just restfully read. I'll wash towels and hang them on the line. I might lay some irrigation hose in the garden. I might try to replace the dryer-vent cover, which looks like squirrels have been snacking on it. I might go for a distance-walk with my neighbor. For his part, Tom has decided to build a fire pit in the back yard so that he can reprise one of his favorite parts of the Harmony lifestyle: cooking over wood. Apparently this will involve mixing cement and laying fire brick; and unhandy Paul, who is eager for distraction, has jumped on the "let me help!" bandwagon. It will be a good project for them, as Tom is precise and particular without being an ass and Paul is strong and unskilled and okay about being bossed around.

Last night's Cafe Quarantine meal featured that old staple, canned salmon. As a child, I ate a lot of canned salmon, which my mother would mix with crumbled saltines and fry as patties or bake as a casserole. I think it was a holdover from her Appalachian childhood: cheap and shelf-stable, and a single can could stretch to feed a family. In truth, canned salmon is surprisingly palatable, as long as you don't care about delicate texture. I used to buy it when we still lived in Harmony, but after moving down here to the land of fresh seafood, I thought I no longer needed to. However, virus-era cooking is calling out the old skills, so yesterday I served a version of the faithful salmon patties. I didn't have crackers, but I did have leftover mashed potatoes. I combined them with cubed white bread, an egg, a little milk, a can of salmon, and salt and pepper, and sautéed the soft patties in grapeseed oil till they were golden on both sides. I topped them with a sauce of chopped chives, chopped sorrel, and melted butter and served them with braised red cabbage and a green salad. It was an excellent meal--a combination of "what's in the garden?" with "what's on the shelf?" and "what winter storage vegetables are still hanging on?"

Grocery shopping is certainly an anxious adventure these days, and I'm not happy to have my mind so obsessed with hunting down eggs and flour and fresh fruit. On the other hand, I am a natural forager, with an eye always peeled for fiddleheads and mushrooms and berries. Forests and fields are way better than stores, but the hunting prowess does overlap. So far I've been able to construct interesting, varied, nutritious meals from my pickings. If I can't write a good poem during the pandemic, at least I have the satisfaction of setting the table every night.