The Blood Moon

The Blood Moon.



The first time i saw it, i was barely able to understand what it was, but i knew it was something to fear. Red and ominous, it floats high in the night sky, suspended by some magic. My family believes it's a face, watching us, judging. It wasn't until i was a man, at seventeen years that i was told the truth, why we cowered in the night, why, when, the moon seemed so far away did we shy away from it when the hue changed from opalescent white, to crimson.

           The year of our lord 1776, the Colonists across the sea continued to stir trouble, but those things rarely mattered to us. We were, like the noblemen said, just simple micks. Irishmen, farmers. Just a small community a days ride from Dublin. We sowed and tended our fields and sheep in the day, drank our malted beer in the evening. In all manners we were happy, except on those rare occasions, when the blood moon arrived. We hid ourselves, in basements, locked our children away in attic spaces. We cowered in fear until dawn. The next day someone was missing,  but we payed it no attention. Just carried on in our lives.
The day aft my seventeenth birthday, I was drinking' my first round with my Da' when the bell was rung. Amongst the normally happy faces, a melancholy settled over us. Each face, from jolly was swept deep into depression, almost visibly drooping.

The story of cooking.

The Story of Cooking. 

When you ask me the significance of a recipe, my response is likely to be, “What recipe?” The truth is, I rarely use them, even when I worked in a restaurant my recipes often varied from day to day. This is not due to a need for perfection; I am not trying to fix something, if it isn’t broken. For me, the relationship between the recipe and the food is a relationship that’s not completely solid. It’s a flowing, changing thing that creates and then re-creates itself every time it’s made. The process is simple, and to me, it’s a lot like writing. You start with a foundation, then you imagine what the flavor’s destination is to be. After that comes the complicated part, figuring out, just how it arrives there. How the ingredients transform from raw materials into the food you can’t wait to savor. 

 

  I’ll return to the metaphor in a minute, first let’s talk about the food. It begins with hunger. Soon the hunger gnawing at my belly over-powers my laziness. . I have to get up. A quick survey shows my ingredients. Choose them hastily, don't mess up. Salt, pepper, and additional spices are chosen. A fresh clove of garlic is recommended. The butter must be heated with the oil. It makes for a better texture. Drop in the garlic and watch carefully as it caramelizes. While it cooks prepare the sauce, Worcestershire red peppers, lime and mango into the blender, blend it up fine, and then mix in the vinegar. Now for the fish, three White Tilapia filets are chosen. Personally, I have to admit I am not a fan of fish, usually. This is a specified recipe. I created to make fish edible, and the flavors bearable. The fish is then tossed into a skillet, the sizzle to me, never gets old. On top of the softened buttery garlic cloves, add salt and pepper, onion powder, and lemon juice. Add it hastily and hope it doesn't mess up. You should then mix a buit of the sauce in and watch the colors change. Lower the temperature, and cover. Let the sauce and scented seasons mix with the fish. The smell is almost overpowering and extraordinary. Now the boiler, melt the butter into the basin and add flour until the thickness is between a dumpling and gravy. Currently you have a good Roux then add the sauce and a bit of cream. Stir and feel the resistance on your spoon grow as the sauce thickens from the roux. Heavy cream is recommended, but not too much. We don’t want to lose that thickness that separates a sauce from a soup. Then add mushrooms, green onion, and finally a bit more Worcestershire sauce, for color and flavor. The fish is removed gently from the skillet, now brown and tender. The sauce is thickened and the sweet and spicy aromas are strong, but not overwhelming. Swirl the pink and yellow colored sauce onto the white fish filets. Garnish with parsley as desired, and a slice of Roma tomato. (fFor a break in flavor.) One of the most important parts, and this I cannot stress enough. NEVER leave the caramelized garlic behind when plating. It’s a flavor you will cherish. 

Beginning with the ingredients, we have a baseBeginning with the ingredients, we have a base for our tale, each one standing as a character in our story. Then, we move on to the plot. Our characters are tossed, thrown, and sautéed into each other’s path, until finally we meet our climax, the truth is told, the ending revealed. The meal is complete. If you’re cooking for yourself, you might even get to enjoy the epilogue. Eating the delicious story you just cooked up.   

 

Freewriote, i will never.

"I will never do this again"
I can remember the feeling of embarrassment in myself. It was almost like every eye burned a hole in my face tears rushed to my eyes and i was pretty sure i wouldn't make it out alive. I did, but for a time i felt i wouldn't. An hour prior to this feeling I was enjoying my Saturday. It was like any other summer day in southern Mississippi. Hot, humid and morose. It was in the midst of my fourteenth year, and that day, despite the morose atmosphere i was feeling pretty good. My grandfather had asked me to mow his grass, which i did without much issue. It took hours and afterward I was hot, and sweaty. With the new dollars crushed into my pocket i knew exactly where i wanted to go. R&B's Quik-Stop was just up the road, a quick walk and i would be there. Cold Gatorade sliding down my parched throat was all i could think of. But then temptation reared it's head. After arriving there i walked straight to the back of the store, where the tall drink coolers were standing. as i glanced up from my feet, i caught the eyes of the most beautiful girl i had seen. I wasn't usually popular with girls, but to my surprise, she smiled. Her blonde hair pulled into a nappy ponytail, bangs cascaded over her sparkling blue eyes. She was perfect. While my mind was focused on her, my feet kept walking. I craned my neck around to continue the eye contact that had my pulse racing. my pace quickened. The next thing i remember was the crash, the sound shook the store. I looked up just in time to see myself plummeting towards myself, or at least my reflection in the cooler's glass door. It crashed to it's side, shattering the door and spilling it's contents all over the store. My nose was bleeding. Everyone looked at me and in the shock i screamed a curse. That's the last time i don't watch where i'm going.


I completely forgot to use my vision. 

"She was Blonde"

I was filled with awe, golden rays of sunlight could only emphasize the Starshine-Hue of her draped and cascading locks. Brought out to stand in the moonlit summer night. The wind blew strands of divinity, and the sweet smell of temptation across my face, tickling the senses.  Then i woke up, in my freezing cold apartment, clutching a dirty, damp cloth. It took a few moments to realize it was the dress she was buried in.


"The toddler is angry"
I was not a bad boy! I am not breaking the rules! I am not doing anything wrong! I want to go home! I'm tired of being too little for anything! I can't even make my own drinks, or lunch, or snack! I can't cross the road without DADDY! I WANT TO WATCH DORA AND BOOTS! I don't care if you don't like it when i yell, or throw my toys. I HATE TIME OUT! I will never eat my vegetables!

It begins with hunger. And soon it over-powers my laziness. I have to get up, a quick survey shows my ingredients. Choose them hastily, don't mess up. Salt, pepper, and additional spices are chosen. A fresh clove of garlic is recommended. The butter must be heated with the oil, it makes for a better texture. Drop in the garlic and watch carefully as it caramelizes. While it cooks prepare the sauce, Worcestershire red peppers, lime and mango into the blender, blend it up fine, then mix in the vinegar.  Now for the fish, three White Tilapia filets are chosen, tossed into the skillet, on top of the softened buttery garlic cloves. add salt and pepper, onion powder, forgot the lemon juice. Add it hastily and hope it doesn't mess up. then a bit of the sauce. Mix it together and watch as the colors change and the aromas intensify.  Lower the temperature, and cover. Let the sauce and scented seasons mix with the fish. The smell is almost overpowering and extraordinary. Now the boiler, melt the butter into the basin and add flour, makes for a good Roux Then the sauce and a bit of cream. Stir and feel the resistance on your spoon grow as the sauce thickens from the roux. Add a few more seasonings, then add mushrooms, green onion, and finally a bit more Worcestershire sauce, for color and flavor. The fish is removed gently from the skillet, now brown and tender. The sauce is thickened and the sweet and spicy aroma are strong, but not overwhelming. Swirl the purple-and yellow colored sauce onto the white fish filets. Garnish with parsley as desired, and a slice of Roma tomato. For a break in flavor.

Sesnse my favorite place, outline.

When i was young i had a place i used to go, to think to write to enjoy and relax. By it's creek it was always cooler and in the shade while in my favorite tree all i had to do was reach up and grab the blueberries as they ripened on the vine.

I can still remember the pattern of the trees to get to my favorite place on earth. The small nook in which rested three trees and a small sandbar. A stream passed cold clear water through around the bend in the bank. It sat low beneath the creek bank, out of sight until you were standing just on top of it.

Always the smello of the place can return to me. The tree that came to be known as my "Resting Tree" Was the Magnolia tree, many days the air was fragrant with the scent of magnolia and jesper, cape jesmine and honeysuckle. The creek brought it's own unique aroma of water, and algae. Mississippi always has a unique scent, like rain had just fallen and the grass, and trees were wet with the rain.

The small amount of sand was what i considered to be my first beach, i loved the way it squished through my toes. Muggy, and cold like the water rushing beside it. The Resting Tree itself may have been hard wood, but it always felt smooth, beneath my posterior and the branch folded into the trunk in the perfect curve. Allowing my back to rest easily. Some days i would stay so long i could feel the dew forming cold on my clothes. Sticking them fast to my skin, and plastering my hair to my face. I never seemed to mind. I spent many nights there, in the chilly summer nights, watching the stars behind the Magnolia branches.

In the early morning the roosters crow and donkey bray were audible over the wind passing through the trees. As the evening drew nearer i could hear the crickets begin to sing their sad song and the whippoorwill shouted it's endless tune. Sometimes in the darkest of nights i could swear i heard the cry of a panther, but my grandfather often said it was just my imagination. The coyotes were real, and at times frightening but never as frightening as hearing the sound of a timber Rattlesnake shaking it's tail, it spoke a warning everyone in the animal kingdom could recognize and even the fiercest of predators knew to stay away.  

In the right time of year, when the season was just right. The blueberries would ripen and the sweetness of memory still calls the taste to my lips. But the true sweetness was in the honeysuckle the work and effort put into retrieving such a tiny drop of nectar was always worth it, it's a taste i can never forget. But those things aside i can remember the wind, always seemed to taste a bit sweeter, floral and humid as all Mississippi air tended to be. But, there it seemed to be even more so. Perhaps it was the resting Tree, Perhaps the blueberries or the honeysuckle or all of the above.

I found it, in the Winter of my eleventh year, I happened across it chasing a squirrel which i have always loved to hunt. Unfortunately for myself i was a clumsy kid, my one track mind set on pursuing the furry little thing i completely forgot my footing. I had chased it  into an unknown part of my grandfathers land, which was adjacent to my families. Little did i know that this was going to be a place i would never forget, nor would i forget the next three days. The creek bank on one side was small and ran into a sand bar that connected directly to the water, on the other side it was a six or seven foot drop. This is the side i stepped off of. I was unlucky to have broken my left leg, but lucky that i didn't shoot myself in the fall.
as my body connected with the ground my head connected with an ironwood stump. It knocked me completely unconscious for almost twelve hours.  When i woke it was far past dark and nearly below freezing my leg was swollen, and stiff. faced with the challenge i used my upper body strength to drag myself out of the freezing water and onto the sand bar, that was the first time i found myself, leaning my wioght upon what came to be known as, The Resting Tree

Senses lizards

The swirls of brightly colored ribbon drew immediate attention away from the small bug in the center. followed quickly by the frequently changing and unique patterns emerging from the three reptiles. Each pattern was unique and divergent to it's own right, each lizard bearing it's skin almost like a badge of honor their indifferent gaze cast into focus on objects unseen. The many bright hues of crimson, blue, green ,purple and yellow cause a shock akin to near trauma. Each patter varied in so many ways it was difficult to stop staring, as the longer i stared the more patterns emerged, simultaneously blending into a solid plethora of color. Nearly an assault on the senses. The little bug in the center was appalled to see so many colors it could not tell the difference between the landscape and it's predators. However it found itself trapped, distraught by its impending doom and terror. What happened you may ask? Did the bug make a heroic escape? Did the lizards have a last second change of heart and praise the bug for it's beauty and life, and in turn, let it live? No it was torn apart, piece by piece. The little blue bug met it's ultimate demise, a fate unavoidable by any in this position.