I am officially sending roots down through the bottoms of my feet and into the mica-speckled hearty soil of the Southern Appalachian chain.
In other words,
I used leftover bacon grease to line the bottom of my cast iron pan tonight, for the first time in my life, so that I could properly reheat my soup.
Oh. My. Gawd.
This, I suppose, only the beginning.
Next, I might start savoring buttermilk, it’s sweet-sourness pulling me back to some childhood I did not have. I will arise in the morning and mix biscuits in one bowl, cutting the dough with a fork, requiring no recipe, knowing their readiness by the sight and texture of the mixture, then their smell as they rise, roast, and swelter in the cook stove.
Or maybe hushpuppies will become my favorite pastime, and yes, “Hush, puppy!” is how they got their name, slyly slipped under the table by chubby-fingered freckled kids from generations long gone. Only the sweet, fatty, corn balls would hush them puppies up and yes, they hush up them kids good, too.
I put another log on the fire and feel the need to sit down; sit down for a long while. That bacon grease is workin’ its way down, chasing the day out of my bones like a hound dog racin’ off the front porch, gone, gone, into the pasture now, under them barbed wires, ‘cross to Lonnie’s place, and under that hen house again. Squawk, tussle, feathers a’ flyin’.
Well I’ll be darned.
Got accepted into Naropa University’s MFA in Creative Writing program today! (Low-residency, of course.)