THE WINTER OF OUR INCONTINENT

         At Five O'clock yesterday I ran out of chili powder. I had a teaspoon and half, but the recipe for called for four. I found another teaspoon of homemade in a plastic glass in the spice cabinet, and dumped it into the mix that was bubbling away in the super-sized Texas Skillet. I began to hunt down the ingredients to make another batch of powder: cayenne, cumin, paprika, oregano, garlic and, oops, no turmeric. By now the liquid in the pan was beginning to boil; there was nothing I could do to raise its alarm bells.

         The chili was not for dinner, but rather would be put in a container and eaten on the nights I did not serve myself leftover meat loaf I had made earlier in the day. With the temperature falling to single digits, it was time for comfort meals. The dog swears by my variation on Susan's Meat Loaf. That recipe is taken from a 1950's era cookbook that came from my mother's cupboard. Susan must not have been a swinger; I have to jolly the taste by spreading horseradish on top before baking it.

         After the chili simmered for twenty minutes, as the recipe taken from a can of Progresso beans instructed, I cut two pieces of Italian bread and put two slices of meatloaf between them. I lathered the underside of the covering with Thousand Island dressing, spooned some macaroni salad onto the paper plate holding the sandwich, and began to head for the table. My nose caught a whiff of the chili. I couldn't resist putting a dollop on my plate to sample it.

         Dinner accompaniment was Bob Kovachick, our friendly weatherman, giving us the brutal forecast. For the twelfth straight day, Albany had at least a trace of snow. Today it hit here about 4:30 when the weather changed again. I was not sure if twelve days was a record or not; I was listening to his prediction that we would be in the deep freeze the remainder of the week. When he said that we had not been below zero in three years, I think he was trying to make me feel better. I remembered that day well; it snowed. The temperature never rose above zero, but I was overheated when I came back in the house after walking the dog.

         I learned a lesson from that experience; I’d worn too many layers. Today, with the outdoor temperature on my thermometer reading one degree an hour earlier, and the sun breaking through, I settle for thermal underwear bottoms, jeans, tee shirt, heavy shirt, sweater with collar, boots and heavy socks. On top of this armament, I put a goosedown mock turtleneck, a heavy coat with a hood, a hat, and gloves in order to walk the dog up the road and then drive to the post office. As we walk the car heats.

         From the top of the hill, the Northern Catskills in the distance have lost their purple mountains' majesty. The sun shines on their snow-capped peaks. Banks of snow piled up by the town's plows surround the road. Last week nightly deposits of one to three inches supplemented the forty inches plus that fell in the previous ten days. The shoulder is dotted with presents from the dogs that have gone before; all the leavings are frozen solid.

         Driving with the dog presents challenges. Her breathing is hot and hard; she steams up the windows. I set the fan on high and turn on the defroster. The windshield is clear enough to see the band of gray rock salt that covers the areas the wipers don't reach, but the side and back windows are fogged over. I am leery of rolling down the glass electronically; I fear it will not close again. I should have bought a car with a direction finder, or adopted a dog that could hold its breath.

         On the return trip, dawdling along at forty, I notice the improved condition of the road over that of last Friday evening. Someone else notices too. He is right on my bumper driving a semi-sports car. The road straightens out, I push the pedal down and hit the speed limit of forty-five but this is not good enough for Parnelli. He zips around me and pulls in front; I can read his license plate. He is a CPA. I wonder if he worked on the Enron account and is fleeing the country.

         I only wish I had been closer to my driveway when he pulled in back of me. I could have slammed on my brakes in order to back into the opening. As it is, I can only throw him a digit and shout a half-word that begins with 'jerk' as he disappears up the hill. Backing into the drive, I think 'tomorrow I will have the dog poop on the road so he can run over it and get it in his tires.'

         The drive is the wide opening in the snow; communication trenches link it to the tree with the dog chain attached and to the front door. Another trench circles the house, with an alcove dug near the woodpile. My eyes can see that the snow has diminished slightly; the lawn does not resemble the British lines at Ypres anymore.

         Once in the house it’s time to shed a layer. Though the indoor temperature is sixty-three, the sun will warm the front rooms, but even if it were cloudy, wearing thermal presents problems to any male in a hurry to stand over the toilet. Jeans are traded for sweatpants, and shoes for boots. It is time to build the fire in the woodstove and get to work. In the late afternoon, I will carry a canvas bag out to the piled up firewood, break off a few pieces and bring them inside to dry. That is six hours away, enough time for the numbness in my frozen right hand to wear off.

         In the meantime, I must choose between bland chili and meat loaf for dinner. I am tempted to trade the dog the chili for her leftover chicken breast, but I am not sure she likes kidney beans. The other solution is to make more chili powder. Could I substitute something for turmeric? Google leads me to Gernot Katzer’s Spice Pages. He, or she, mentions that turmeric is part of all curry powders. Curry powder, hmmmm? Mine is old and stale. Could I make some? “A typical curry powder should derive its taste mainly from roasted cumin, roasted coriander, black pepper, chiles and roasted fenugreek…….The yellow colour stems from turmeric.” Dash it, I have no fenugreek.

         “For want of a nail” the chili will remain vanilla. The dog that usually sits outside most of the day will stay inside, close to the home fires, and bark at any crow that lands near her fortress. The untrammeled snow in the field in back will continue to glint, waiting for deer to cross it. If the wind blows in the right direction, I will be able to see the shadow of the smoke from the stove. As I sit here, the phone will ring. Clients from warmer climes will be calling. Poor people, they will have to hear the tales of the mighty Nanook, "waiting for summer his pastures to change."

Valatie January 14, 2003