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Haven't done this for YEARS!
Posted 11 years agoDespite living near the beach, I rarely go swimming -- or even wading -- in the ocean. Fish don't swim in my toilet, and I return the favour by not swimming in their toilet. That is, until yesterday.
I was kayaking, lot of fun. Do it pretty frequently and it's a great shoulder workout. It's also a good way to spot stuff, usually plants and marine life and whatnot. Yesterday there was a fishing lure just bobbin' along in the water, looked sorta pricey. Or at least, I'll bet it would to someone who actually fishes, and I figured I could sell it back at the dock. But when I leaned over JUST a little more to nab this bauble, my cellphone dropped into the drink. And then I followed. I had to, the cellphone was strapped to my neck.
Of course I panicked! My gawed, the water at that part of the channel was easily 40 feet deep and NO DOUBT TEEMING with SHARKS! But then I realized a couple o' things: First, that I sorta float; then, I can swim; third, the dock was like 30/40 years away. So, yeah, rationality came to the rescue! Okay, that, AND a couple in their power boat who grabbed my paddle and towed me to the dock! They also managed to retrieve my wallet, which had floated out of my trunks while I was swimming toward land! >.<
All in all an a good deal more excitement that previous forays around the bay, but this old horse is gonna be without a phone for the next week or two.
I was kayaking, lot of fun. Do it pretty frequently and it's a great shoulder workout. It's also a good way to spot stuff, usually plants and marine life and whatnot. Yesterday there was a fishing lure just bobbin' along in the water, looked sorta pricey. Or at least, I'll bet it would to someone who actually fishes, and I figured I could sell it back at the dock. But when I leaned over JUST a little more to nab this bauble, my cellphone dropped into the drink. And then I followed. I had to, the cellphone was strapped to my neck.
Of course I panicked! My gawed, the water at that part of the channel was easily 40 feet deep and NO DOUBT TEEMING with SHARKS! But then I realized a couple o' things: First, that I sorta float; then, I can swim; third, the dock was like 30/40 years away. So, yeah, rationality came to the rescue! Okay, that, AND a couple in their power boat who grabbed my paddle and towed me to the dock! They also managed to retrieve my wallet, which had floated out of my trunks while I was swimming toward land! >.<
All in all an a good deal more excitement that previous forays around the bay, but this old horse is gonna be without a phone for the next week or two.
In other news, Pompeii
Posted 11 years agoMost likely I'll never get to the actual city, but the travelling exhibit showing relics from ancient and tragic Pompeii is nearby. Heading there next Friday.
Yes, old draught horse is a history buff. Make cracks about my age and YOU'LL be history, bub! :P
Yes, old draught horse is a history buff. Make cracks about my age and YOU'LL be history, bub! :P
Claymore's Old-Time Brewed Ginger Ale
Posted 12 years agoClaymore Highfield's Old Time Ginger Ale
Gotta tell ya, I find commercial ginger ales pretty tame. Even the ones that provide that snappy ginger taste have undesirable flavour components or an overall synthetic/processed taste that just doesn't work for me. What to do? Well, take matters into my own hooves, of course!
The process is simple, the ingredients are inexpensive and readily available, the results are refreshing and intensely gingery. If you like a robust soda pop that you simply can't get by mixing chemically syrup with bubbly water, give this one a try!
You'll need:
1/2 C Ginger, freshly grated
1 C Granulated white (table) sugar
1/3 C Freshly squeezed lemon juice. (No. Don't use that little plastic bottle of 'lemon juice.')
1/8 C Freshly squeezed lime juice
1/4 tsp bread yeast
1-1/2 Qt water
You will also need a saucepan, a pitcher, whisk, and an empty, CLEAN, 2-liter soda bottle.
Place the water in a saucepan on the stove and bring it to a slow boil while you grate and juice the ginger and citrus, then add everything but the yeast to the water. Allow the mix to slow boil for about 5 minutes, and TASTE the mixture periodically. Does it seem strong? Good! It's supposed to, but your palate is your guide -- you may prefer more or less sugar, so add water or sugar to adjust. More lemon or lime juice? Be my guest!
Once the taste is balanced, take the pan off the heat and allow it to cool, covered, to 80 degrees on your thermometer. No thermometer? No problem. The liquid should be cool enough to drizzle onto your wrist with a feeling of warmth but NO discomfort. Now, strain the liquid into a CLEAN pitcher or other suitable container with a pouring spout, then whisk in the yeast until it's thoroughly dispersed. Pour the liquid into the soda bottle, which will not be completely filled, then TIGHTLY cap the bottle. Set the bottle out of direct light in a warm (70F-78F is ideal) area for 24 hours.
At the end of this time, your soda bottle will now feel as though it's tightly filled -- just like the ones that come from the store, only your soda is NATURALLY carbonated! Put the bottle in the refrigerator for another 24 hours, and then ENJOY! :D
Gotta tell ya, I find commercial ginger ales pretty tame. Even the ones that provide that snappy ginger taste have undesirable flavour components or an overall synthetic/processed taste that just doesn't work for me. What to do? Well, take matters into my own hooves, of course!
The process is simple, the ingredients are inexpensive and readily available, the results are refreshing and intensely gingery. If you like a robust soda pop that you simply can't get by mixing chemically syrup with bubbly water, give this one a try!
You'll need:
1/2 C Ginger, freshly grated
1 C Granulated white (table) sugar
1/3 C Freshly squeezed lemon juice. (No. Don't use that little plastic bottle of 'lemon juice.')
1/8 C Freshly squeezed lime juice
1/4 tsp bread yeast
1-1/2 Qt water
You will also need a saucepan, a pitcher, whisk, and an empty, CLEAN, 2-liter soda bottle.
Place the water in a saucepan on the stove and bring it to a slow boil while you grate and juice the ginger and citrus, then add everything but the yeast to the water. Allow the mix to slow boil for about 5 minutes, and TASTE the mixture periodically. Does it seem strong? Good! It's supposed to, but your palate is your guide -- you may prefer more or less sugar, so add water or sugar to adjust. More lemon or lime juice? Be my guest!
Once the taste is balanced, take the pan off the heat and allow it to cool, covered, to 80 degrees on your thermometer. No thermometer? No problem. The liquid should be cool enough to drizzle onto your wrist with a feeling of warmth but NO discomfort. Now, strain the liquid into a CLEAN pitcher or other suitable container with a pouring spout, then whisk in the yeast until it's thoroughly dispersed. Pour the liquid into the soda bottle, which will not be completely filled, then TIGHTLY cap the bottle. Set the bottle out of direct light in a warm (70F-78F is ideal) area for 24 hours.
At the end of this time, your soda bottle will now feel as though it's tightly filled -- just like the ones that come from the store, only your soda is NATURALLY carbonated! Put the bottle in the refrigerator for another 24 hours, and then ENJOY! :D
For the furries who cook
Posted 12 years agoYou know, they say you can't teach an old horse new tricks, but I gotta tell ya -- they're just wrong. Been cookin' a long time -- longer than a bunch of y'all furry-come-latelies have been around -- and I know a thing or three about putting together some edible grub. But there's a whole lot yet to learn, and it's been fun filling in the gaps in my old noggin.
Two things have recently been underscored in my culinary explorations: Real stock, and mirepoix (mere-uh-pwah). 'Real' stock is a rich broth which is slowly simmered from bones, less tender cuts of meat (hock meat, for example) sometimes organs like hearts or gizzards, and aromatics. That's where the mirepoix comes in, by the way. A finely-diced blend of carrots, onions, and celery, which is then enriched by the cook's own preferences, perhaps adding bell pepper, leeks, turnip, etc.
Now before you scoff, bear in mind that I don't have time to stand near stove while a pot of bones and herbs simmers for hours on end. This is where my kitchen workhorse the crockpot shines -- load it down with bones and good, drinkable water, set it, and forget it. Hours later it yields a nectar-like wealth of flavourful base for soup, stew, braising, or what-have-you. And the finely-diced aromatics? Well, yes, they're just carrots and onions, but something magical happens; I don't know the chemistry involved, but I suspect the dicing exposes surface area to cooking which means more taste moves from the veggies into the broth. Add a sachet of thyme, bay leaves, peppercorns, perhaps some garlic, perhaps your own touches as well (fennel leaves or Italian parsley - why, yes please!) and tell me it wasn't worth the effort.
Yes, I'm long-winded by nature, and there are few topics on which I can't spin a very long and sometimes interesting Clyde's Tale, but in this instance my post was inspired by a rather successful dish tonight. My "Depression Chicken Soup" earned unanimous praise, in part because it's based on the stock I mentioned earlier. What is the recipe, and why is the dish so glumly named? Ah, dear reader, these questions must await another post. You see, I've a steaming bowl of soup to which my muzzle must now attend. :D
Two things have recently been underscored in my culinary explorations: Real stock, and mirepoix (mere-uh-pwah). 'Real' stock is a rich broth which is slowly simmered from bones, less tender cuts of meat (hock meat, for example) sometimes organs like hearts or gizzards, and aromatics. That's where the mirepoix comes in, by the way. A finely-diced blend of carrots, onions, and celery, which is then enriched by the cook's own preferences, perhaps adding bell pepper, leeks, turnip, etc.
Now before you scoff, bear in mind that I don't have time to stand near stove while a pot of bones and herbs simmers for hours on end. This is where my kitchen workhorse the crockpot shines -- load it down with bones and good, drinkable water, set it, and forget it. Hours later it yields a nectar-like wealth of flavourful base for soup, stew, braising, or what-have-you. And the finely-diced aromatics? Well, yes, they're just carrots and onions, but something magical happens; I don't know the chemistry involved, but I suspect the dicing exposes surface area to cooking which means more taste moves from the veggies into the broth. Add a sachet of thyme, bay leaves, peppercorns, perhaps some garlic, perhaps your own touches as well (fennel leaves or Italian parsley - why, yes please!) and tell me it wasn't worth the effort.
Yes, I'm long-winded by nature, and there are few topics on which I can't spin a very long and sometimes interesting Clyde's Tale, but in this instance my post was inspired by a rather successful dish tonight. My "Depression Chicken Soup" earned unanimous praise, in part because it's based on the stock I mentioned earlier. What is the recipe, and why is the dish so glumly named? Ah, dear reader, these questions must await another post. You see, I've a steaming bowl of soup to which my muzzle must now attend. :D
Recipe: Eggplant (Aubergine) Curry
Posted 12 years agoYeah, random. I was chatting on Skype with a friend, and mentioned what I was eating for lunch. He asked for the recipe. Wut? 0.o More difficult than you might guess, as I cook via the 'touch of this, pawful of that' method and REALLY had to think to translate proportions into quantities. Anyhoo, this will give a pretty decent approximation of some not-that-bad Indian chow. Give it a nom!
Aubergine Curry
Like any Indian dish, this curry lends itself to improvisation. Feel free to add any veggies you may have on hand or what's seasonal in your area. Crank up the heat with more chile if you like, and serve with lentils, rice, and tea for a whole meal.
2 Large eggplants, peeled and diced.
1 Large onion, peeled and diced
3 Large tomatoes, diced
1 jalapeno, seeded and finely diced, or more to taste.
2 Tablespoon (T) fresh garlic paste, or to taste
2 (T) fresh ginger paste, or to taste.
1 8 oz can tomato sauce
1 T powdered cumin
1 T powdered coriander
1 Teaspoon (tsp) powdered turmeric
3 T olive oil OR ghee
Salt and pepper, to taste
OPTIONAL
Fried tofu cubes
Paneer cubes
Fried potato cubes
Frozen peas/carrots/corn
Poha (flattened grain)
http://ninasnosh.files.wordpress.co.....609-130218.jpg
I use maize poha, but rice would work also. Soak the flakes and drain first.
METHOD:
Heat a broad, shallow skillet and add the fat, and when hot, brown-fry the onions. Briefly, this means to caramelize the onions in a lengthy saute; watch to ensure the onions don't burn. When they're thoroughly cooked, add the garlic and ginger pastes, stirring them in thoroughly, then adding the jalapeno. Stir, cooking the chile until soft. Add the spices, stirring thoroughly, then add the chopped tomatoes, eggplant, and tomato sauce. Fill the empty can from the sauce with warm tap water, and add it to the pan, about 1 Cup of water. Add the dry, ground spices, stir thoroughly, and cover the pan. Simmer the mix, covered, until the desired degree of doneness is achieved -- the eggplant may remain as small cubes, or it may be cooked down to the consistency of a puree, as desired.
When the consistency of the dish is right, check for seasoning, adding salt and pepper as needed. Add chile flakes if you like, and if you're using poha or other optional ingredients, stir them in now and heat through.
SERVING:
Plate with a side of basmati rice and a dish of lentils (dal), sprinkled with chopped coriander and/or green onion tops. A mango chutney and a spicy green chutney are nice accompaniments.
http://www.tarladalal.com/Green-Chutney-(Chaat)-2797r
Aubergine Curry
Like any Indian dish, this curry lends itself to improvisation. Feel free to add any veggies you may have on hand or what's seasonal in your area. Crank up the heat with more chile if you like, and serve with lentils, rice, and tea for a whole meal.
2 Large eggplants, peeled and diced.
1 Large onion, peeled and diced
3 Large tomatoes, diced
1 jalapeno, seeded and finely diced, or more to taste.
2 Tablespoon (T) fresh garlic paste, or to taste
2 (T) fresh ginger paste, or to taste.
1 8 oz can tomato sauce
1 T powdered cumin
1 T powdered coriander
1 Teaspoon (tsp) powdered turmeric
3 T olive oil OR ghee
Salt and pepper, to taste
OPTIONAL
Fried tofu cubes
Paneer cubes
Fried potato cubes
Frozen peas/carrots/corn
Poha (flattened grain)
http://ninasnosh.files.wordpress.co.....609-130218.jpg
I use maize poha, but rice would work also. Soak the flakes and drain first.
METHOD:
Heat a broad, shallow skillet and add the fat, and when hot, brown-fry the onions. Briefly, this means to caramelize the onions in a lengthy saute; watch to ensure the onions don't burn. When they're thoroughly cooked, add the garlic and ginger pastes, stirring them in thoroughly, then adding the jalapeno. Stir, cooking the chile until soft. Add the spices, stirring thoroughly, then add the chopped tomatoes, eggplant, and tomato sauce. Fill the empty can from the sauce with warm tap water, and add it to the pan, about 1 Cup of water. Add the dry, ground spices, stir thoroughly, and cover the pan. Simmer the mix, covered, until the desired degree of doneness is achieved -- the eggplant may remain as small cubes, or it may be cooked down to the consistency of a puree, as desired.
When the consistency of the dish is right, check for seasoning, adding salt and pepper as needed. Add chile flakes if you like, and if you're using poha or other optional ingredients, stir them in now and heat through.
SERVING:
Plate with a side of basmati rice and a dish of lentils (dal), sprinkled with chopped coriander and/or green onion tops. A mango chutney and a spicy green chutney are nice accompaniments.
http://www.tarladalal.com/Green-Chutney-(Chaat)-2797r
It Was SUPPOSED To Be A Lazy Day... :3
Posted 12 years agoAll right, I'd planned to loaf on my day off. Most of the time they gotta lay the lash on me pretty heavy to get any work outta me at all, and for a draught horse, I'm pretty good at doin' nothin'. All right, so being facetious, but the fact that today turned out as productive as it did was mildly surprising.
First there were the pickles. Okay, they're not pickles yet, merely raw cucumbers soaking in brine. Ah, but what brine! Salty, of course, but thick with dill and garlic, mustard seeds, coriander, and peppercorns. A mix of standard pickling cukes and Persian cucumbers, these bad boys are gonna be nicely sour after a several days of natural fermentation and a week or so of finishing in the fridge.
Then, the swap meet. Oh, deer gawed, the swap meet. *facehoof* Yes, I have more hammers than Vulcan, and lord knows I don't need another one, but... c'mon! Vintage hammers for less than 5 bucks? Sometimes as cheap as a dollar? Irresistible temptation, meet disposable income; swap meet, here I come! All right, no hammers, but I DID pick up a vintage Buck Brothers socket chisel (maybe late 19th C.) in VG condition...for a BUCK! Buck Brothers chisel...for a buck? And you're not even mildly amused? Okay, movin' on.
Got back to the house and I WANTED to go lie out in the sun. Despite my mixed ethnicity, I am NOT naturally a nice Clydesdale bay colour; more of a pasty white, actually. But that wasn't working for me; projects were weighing on my mind.
Specifically, a while back I read about a woodworking club in Florida whose members were engaged in making memorial urns, then donating them to the families of veterans who couldn't afford such urns. Used for the storage of cremated remains by some families, these urns can cost 200 bucks and up -- depending, of course, on the material and complexity of the design. I've made urns, both professionally (for pets) and personally (for family and friends), and such a project is well within my capabilities.
However, I've been putting the project off, procrastinating for the sake of a perfect design. There is no such thing, of course, and the simple design that's been fermenting in my mind (a callback to the earlier mention of pickles -- you got that, right?) is more than adequate. A simple, rectangular box made of European beech trimmed in American black walnut, with a simple sealing mechanism and a matte lacquer finish. No idea who it's for, the finished product will be given to my local VFW or American Legion post.
Anyway, as I said, it was supposed to be a lazy day. I guess I'll have to save my loafing for work. :D
First there were the pickles. Okay, they're not pickles yet, merely raw cucumbers soaking in brine. Ah, but what brine! Salty, of course, but thick with dill and garlic, mustard seeds, coriander, and peppercorns. A mix of standard pickling cukes and Persian cucumbers, these bad boys are gonna be nicely sour after a several days of natural fermentation and a week or so of finishing in the fridge.
Then, the swap meet. Oh, deer gawed, the swap meet. *facehoof* Yes, I have more hammers than Vulcan, and lord knows I don't need another one, but... c'mon! Vintage hammers for less than 5 bucks? Sometimes as cheap as a dollar? Irresistible temptation, meet disposable income; swap meet, here I come! All right, no hammers, but I DID pick up a vintage Buck Brothers socket chisel (maybe late 19th C.) in VG condition...for a BUCK! Buck Brothers chisel...for a buck? And you're not even mildly amused? Okay, movin' on.
Got back to the house and I WANTED to go lie out in the sun. Despite my mixed ethnicity, I am NOT naturally a nice Clydesdale bay colour; more of a pasty white, actually. But that wasn't working for me; projects were weighing on my mind.
Specifically, a while back I read about a woodworking club in Florida whose members were engaged in making memorial urns, then donating them to the families of veterans who couldn't afford such urns. Used for the storage of cremated remains by some families, these urns can cost 200 bucks and up -- depending, of course, on the material and complexity of the design. I've made urns, both professionally (for pets) and personally (for family and friends), and such a project is well within my capabilities.
However, I've been putting the project off, procrastinating for the sake of a perfect design. There is no such thing, of course, and the simple design that's been fermenting in my mind (a callback to the earlier mention of pickles -- you got that, right?) is more than adequate. A simple, rectangular box made of European beech trimmed in American black walnut, with a simple sealing mechanism and a matte lacquer finish. No idea who it's for, the finished product will be given to my local VFW or American Legion post.
Anyway, as I said, it was supposed to be a lazy day. I guess I'll have to save my loafing for work. :D
Fiction: "Donaldson's Harrow"
Posted 13 years agoThis is another story fragment, which I've posted in my gallery but which is short enough to paste here.
An encounter with a new neighbour of Claymore's in Penn's Ill, during which Mr. Donaldson learns something of the cranky Clydesdale's history.
Cursing again at the poor fit of his welding helmet ("damn things aren't made for horse-faces"), Claymore flipped up the dark lens to view his work. Not bad for a Sunday morning, he thought to himself. "That stinkin' Donaldson is getting a deal," he spoke, unfortunately aloud.
"And would that be this Donaldson, Mr. Highfield?" chuckled an intrusive voice behind Claymore, who instantly straightened and whirled around. Reflexes like a colt, even when hungover; not bad for an old guy, the startled stallion couldn't help thinking.
"Yes, sir, Mr. Donaldson...just thinking out loud about the cost of materials these days. Sorry, I didn't mean any offence!" (And I sure didn't mean to leave the friggin' gate unlocked last night.)
"Not a problem, Mister Highfield, I know what a deal I'm getting on this harrow repair." He whistled, and sounded amazed while shaking his head. "One hundred, eight-five Lindens!" Donaldson rested his boot on the harrow near the still-hot welds, leaning in like a man with a good deal to say and the time to say it all. "But if smithing these days is anywhere close to as profitable as farming, then I'm betting you're glad to have that." While there was a great deal of truth in Donaldson's observation, there wasn't any scorn, and Claymore felt an involuntary smile force the corners of his mouth upwards. He hoped it didn't show; softness towards clients meant fewer profits from them.
Donaldson, however, was not a man who regarded neighbourliness as either soft or weak. Nor was he likely to be brushed aside with Claymore's usual "here's your work, where's my check, don't let the door smack you in the ass on your way out" attitude. Still being rather new in Penn's Ill, Donaldson was determined to make the acquaintance of his fellow citizens; he found the equine smith a particularly intriguing prospect. Not least of all because Donaldson was curious how Claymore manipulated tools...using his hooves.
"Mr. Highfield, you can call me Mitch," Donaldson smiled, extending a hand but then catching himself.
"Sure. Yah. Thank you, Mitch. I suppose you can call me Claymore...and yes, I do the hand-shaking thing. Put your hand out. Please." Mitch fully extended his right hand this time, expecting Claymore to drop his hoof into it -- like a dog does when "shaking" hands. Instead, Claymore wrapped his right hoof roughly around Mitch's fingers; not quite grasping, but displaying more flexibility than expected. The motion was illuminating, and slightly unsettling.
"Yeah, that one catches most people off guard," Claymore chuckled at Donaldson's mild distress while releasing the man's hand. "My front hooves aren't quite articulated, but they are soft and remarkably flexible. Good thing I started walking upright, 'cause these would have been useless for walking on -- too soft, and they won't hold shoes." Clay shrugged. "They bend enough so I can grasp things with them...hammers, tongs, whatnot...so it's been a good trade-off. I still can't use 'em for picking up cards, though!" Claymore snorted; in fact, he was adept enough with playing cards to burn the local yokels with a crooked little game called Three Card Monte, a con that sometimes helped pay the bills in Thistletime.
"That's pretty cool, Claymore!" marveled Donaldson, clenching his right hand to relieve the discomfort of the Clydesdale's grasp. "Are your hooves flexible enough to handle a coffee pot?" Donaldson smiled warmly, the slight arching of his eyebrows perfectly matching the cheery hint in his voice.
Claymore wisely suppressed a sigh and offered instead a slight nod and a pretty good replica of a smile. "Yeah, Mitch, I can handle a coffee pot." The Clydesdale paused, dreading the response he knew was coming. "Could I interest you in a cuppa joe?"
"Why Mr. Highfield! I've never yet turned down a free cup of coffee and don't plan to start now. I've got some fresh bagels in the truck...ya hungry?"
The prospect of hot, chewy bread made the thought of entertaining this intrusive human almost bearable. Had Clay thought a bit more about it, he might even have found his thinking of someone else as "intrusive" ironic. "Sure, Mitch...and I wouldn't turn down cream cheese, either. Kitchen's this way," Claymore called over his withers as he turned away.
"Knock, knock!" Donaldson called as he entered, not bothering to wait for a response. "You like garlic or poppyseed bagels, Claymore?"
"Yes," Clay responded, pushing the start button on the coffee maker. "You got cream cheese?" he asked, grabbing three of each bagel, leaving two in the sack. Donaldson's eyes widened. "Uh, no...sorry. Do you have a toaster?"
"Nope," Claymore answered. Does this look like a friggin' restaurant? he thought. "But the coffee will be ready in a few. You know, I might have some marmalade though," Claymore muttered, opening the fridge. "Yah, there's a bit here...help yourself." He put the marmalade jar on the counter, and then grabbed a couple of mugs. They were roughly the size of buckets.
"Thank you, Claymore. I've been meaning to drop by and introduce myself, since I live so close. You know I moved into the old Munson place, right?" That was the farm next to his, and Munson had long been a source of complaints to the county farm bureau over coal smoke and late-night anvil clanging. Until the old coot stroked out last year.
"Huh. Never paid much attention to what happens around here," the Clydesdale snorted. "I tend to stick to my own business." Claymore suddenly recalled a story he'd read about a puppet whose nose grew when he told lies. "Coffee's ready. Black, or you need some milk, Mitch?" Claymore wished he'd thought of checking the milk's date before offering.
"Black's fine, thanks," Mitch said through a mouthful of bagel. "Anyway, I got moved into the Munson farm last April, but I had a lot of repairs to make, then there was spring planting, and I just managed to get the last of my braeburn apples before the October frost... ."
Yeah, that's great, Mitch, you're a farmer, real salt of the Earth type. "Uh-huh, frost was a bit later this year," Claymore nodded, tipping bits of onion out of the empty bagel bag into his hoof. Those little crunchy bits were just too good to throw away.
"And I figured it was time to get that harrow fixed anyway, so what better time to introduce myself to my closest neighbour." Mitch finished his introduction with a small nod and a smile that anyone else would have seen as friendly. Claymore thought it was smug. This guy is gonna camp in my kitchen all day!
"Okay, Mitch, well, I'm glad you finally made the time. You know I do all kinds of machine work, repairs, and fabrication, and I'm ready to help any time." Claymore pushed a slightly greasy piece of paper across the counter towards his guest. "Here's the invoice for your harrow repair. You writin' a check? You can pay by cash, too." Hope this hayseed gets the hint.
"I don't have that kinda cash on me, Claymore, but I'm gonna make this out for an even 200 Lindens." Already busy writing, Mitch missed the sudden flash of frustration that fell over the Clydesdale's long face as Claymore mumbled, "I'm gonna need some ID, please." Claymore tipped the empty bag up to his mouth, determined to get the last few onion particles. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed a familiar look on his guest's face, a look that suddenly filled the Clydesdale with shame: Donaldson was hungry.
Highfield, you're an idiot! Claymore thought, suddenly remembering that he actually possessed both manners and compassion. This guy's a farmer, for God's sakes, with a critical piece of his machine stock outta commission and a flat market for what's still in the fields. You think maybe he's not eating all that regular the last coupla weeks?
Clay put down the paper bag, lowering his head just a little bit. Mitch had finished writing the check and offered it to Claymore, but the Clydesdale avoided meeting his gaze. "You know, Mitch, I was just about to make some lunch, nothin' fancy, bunch of leftovers. More than I can eat. Care to stay for lunch?"
"I wouldn't say no to lunch, Claymore," Mitch smiled, "if you'll let me contribute to the pot. I've got some produce on the truck for you, huh?"
"Sure, Mitch, whatever." Clay smiled, almost as though doing so didn't make his face hurt this time. "Why don't you wait until after lunch, though? This won't take long to heat and serve." It was, for Claymore, a smallish spread of pinto beans, cornbread, coleslaw, stewed tomatoes, and assorted condiments. Mitch looked puzzled when his host produced the remains of a nicely browned ham shank. "Ham, Claymore? I thought horses were vegetarians?"
Clay snorted. "I've got, what do you call 'em, distant cousins on the coast who eat oysters, but I'm not exactly a horse, you know. You go up to one of those vegetarian-type four-footers and ask about the weather...just see what kind of response you get, huh? They don't talk much, you know." Mitch nodded, somewhat blankly.
"I was adopted by a farmer, Mitch," Clay continued as he set out plates and silverware. "You must know by now that nothin' goes to waste on a farm, and I learned to eat pork. A little chicken, too; always felt sorta guilty about that. I can't eat beef, because that's a little too close to home, you know?" Clay finished putting food on the table and invited his guest to join him. "But pigs, I never really cared for them at all, and as it turned out, they're pretty tasty."
"You are a curious creature, Mr. Highfield," Mitch remarked, crumbling cornbread onto his plate before ladling some hot beans on top. He paused. "Just what sort of creature are you, anyways? You said you're not a horse, but you certainly look equine to me!"
"Here, try some of these with the beans" Claymore said, handing Mitch a bowl of pickled jalapeno slices. "I started as a horse, Mitch, but the Great Bright Light...it changed me. Let me lay some big words on you, bipedal anthropomorphic equine. Basically means an upright, horse-like creature with human characteristics." Mitch sniffed the peppers, deciding they were not for him. "Yes, I'm familiar with the terms, thanks. But this 'Great Bright Light' that brought about this change, that's news to me. What was that, Claymore?"
Clay rolled his eyes slightly, catching himself before smarting off. Dial it down a notch, Gramps, this guy's just not as long in the tooth as you! "You old enough to remember the Bay Of Pigs fiasco, Mitch?"
Donaldson laughed. "I date back to the Kennedy era, Claymore, but I don't remember it. I was baby at the time!"
"Yeah, I was a foal then, still fully horse, in fact. I just remember bits and pieces of that part of my life; the rest of it I've discovered in doing research the last few years. That Internet they cooked up has helped a great deal, making things easier and faster, but the basics were pretty widely known before then."
Claymore put down his spoon and wiped his mouth, taking a little too long to replace the napkin on his lap. He looked away from the table, as though searching for something, but whatever it was could not be found anywhere in the kitchen. At last he turned to Mitch, who had also stopped eating and was now focused completely on Claymore's words.
"It was Thistletime, in what I later learned was 1962. I was a late spring foal that year and was still standing by my Dama after most of the other foals had been weaned. I was sleeping with Dama and the other brood mares, plus perhaps three or four foals in a fenced pasture. There was a bright light -- too bright to be the Moon, but too early to be the Sun. It was bright enough to startle us out of sleep, and we were very afraid. Too afraid to even move -- not that there was anywhere to run. But soon after the light, there was wind, soft at first, then louder, very frightening, almost as though it yelled while blowing toward us. The other mares bolted, and I saw one foal trampled in the mud, but I don't know what happened to the others. Dama nipped at me, shrieking in my ears, nudging me towards the far end of the pasture, farthest away from the rushing wind. I ran, wobbling and flailing as she screamed at me to run faster, faster towards the stock tank. She half pushed and half threw me into the cold water, screaming at me to stay inside. Her screams were drowned out by the wind, and I thought I too was drowning. The light and the noise then faded as I lost consciousness in the cold, black water."
Claymore took a long drink of coffee, draining his mug. Donaldson said nothing as the Clydesdale got up and reached for the coffee pot, shaking his head 'no' when Clay offered a warm up. "Go ahead and eat, Mitch, I'm gonna make another pot. You might be sorry you asked to hear this story. Clydesdales are prone to run at the mouth once you get 'em goin'!"
Donaldson laughed politely along with the small joke. He wasn't sure if his host was comfortable sharing what were clearly painful memories, but at the same time he found the tale intriguing and wanted to hear more. "Claymore, you're the only 'anthropomorphic bipedal equine' with whom I've ever spoken, and I don't know when I'll get to chat with another one. Go ahead and ramble, I'm not complaining. Besides, the more you talk, the more I get to eat!"
Claymore snorted, watching Mitch reach for the bowl of beans. Mitch wasn't sure whether the snort was derisive or amused, but looking at Claymore it appeared that he was smiling. Mitch smiled, then reached for more coleslaw. Fair enough! Payback for me hoggin' the bagels! Claymore thought as he slid the coffee filter basket back into place, pressed 'start,' and sat back down at the table. There was a lengthy pause before Claymore began talking again.
"It was daylight when I woke up, late morning, I think. And I was freezing cold. I don't know how long I was in that stock tank. My body ached, my head ached, I was nauseated beyond belief, and my skin was cold and burning at the same time. And then, I saw Dama. I could just poke my nose over the top of the concrete tank, and I saw her. Or rather, what was left of her."
Claymore sniffed and turned his head, becoming silent for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet and unsteady. "Dama was covered in Black Wings, they were thick on her, like an awful blanket of feathers. The cawing was deafening...there were more of them, just fighting to get at her, to, to feed...!"
He paused again, closing his eyes before continuing. "I couldn't jump out of the tank, I kept trying, but it felt like I was swimming in honey. I could barely move, but finally managed to scramble out and fell on the ground. I was...neighing...as loud as I could, but the Black Wings ignored me. It took forever to drag myself upright and stagger over to Dama; I kicked at the butchers from the sky, but they kept coming back. The pecking was hideous, but her skin...her body...it was, as though it had exploded into blisters. Her mane, her tail, her beautiful eyes; all gone."
Donaldson's HarrowAn encounter with a new neighbour of Claymore's in Penn's Ill, during which Mr. Donaldson learns something of the cranky Clydesdale's history.
Cursing again at the poor fit of his welding helmet ("damn things aren't made for horse-faces"), Claymore flipped up the dark lens to view his work. Not bad for a Sunday morning, he thought to himself. "That stinkin' Donaldson is getting a deal," he spoke, unfortunately aloud.
"And would that be this Donaldson, Mr. Highfield?" chuckled an intrusive voice behind Claymore, who instantly straightened and whirled around. Reflexes like a colt, even when hungover; not bad for an old guy, the startled stallion couldn't help thinking.
"Yes, sir, Mr. Donaldson...just thinking out loud about the cost of materials these days. Sorry, I didn't mean any offence!" (And I sure didn't mean to leave the friggin' gate unlocked last night.)
"Not a problem, Mister Highfield, I know what a deal I'm getting on this harrow repair." He whistled, and sounded amazed while shaking his head. "One hundred, eight-five Lindens!" Donaldson rested his boot on the harrow near the still-hot welds, leaning in like a man with a good deal to say and the time to say it all. "But if smithing these days is anywhere close to as profitable as farming, then I'm betting you're glad to have that." While there was a great deal of truth in Donaldson's observation, there wasn't any scorn, and Claymore felt an involuntary smile force the corners of his mouth upwards. He hoped it didn't show; softness towards clients meant fewer profits from them.
Donaldson, however, was not a man who regarded neighbourliness as either soft or weak. Nor was he likely to be brushed aside with Claymore's usual "here's your work, where's my check, don't let the door smack you in the ass on your way out" attitude. Still being rather new in Penn's Ill, Donaldson was determined to make the acquaintance of his fellow citizens; he found the equine smith a particularly intriguing prospect. Not least of all because Donaldson was curious how Claymore manipulated tools...using his hooves.
"Mr. Highfield, you can call me Mitch," Donaldson smiled, extending a hand but then catching himself.
"Sure. Yah. Thank you, Mitch. I suppose you can call me Claymore...and yes, I do the hand-shaking thing. Put your hand out. Please." Mitch fully extended his right hand this time, expecting Claymore to drop his hoof into it -- like a dog does when "shaking" hands. Instead, Claymore wrapped his right hoof roughly around Mitch's fingers; not quite grasping, but displaying more flexibility than expected. The motion was illuminating, and slightly unsettling.
"Yeah, that one catches most people off guard," Claymore chuckled at Donaldson's mild distress while releasing the man's hand. "My front hooves aren't quite articulated, but they are soft and remarkably flexible. Good thing I started walking upright, 'cause these would have been useless for walking on -- too soft, and they won't hold shoes." Clay shrugged. "They bend enough so I can grasp things with them...hammers, tongs, whatnot...so it's been a good trade-off. I still can't use 'em for picking up cards, though!" Claymore snorted; in fact, he was adept enough with playing cards to burn the local yokels with a crooked little game called Three Card Monte, a con that sometimes helped pay the bills in Thistletime.
"That's pretty cool, Claymore!" marveled Donaldson, clenching his right hand to relieve the discomfort of the Clydesdale's grasp. "Are your hooves flexible enough to handle a coffee pot?" Donaldson smiled warmly, the slight arching of his eyebrows perfectly matching the cheery hint in his voice.
Claymore wisely suppressed a sigh and offered instead a slight nod and a pretty good replica of a smile. "Yeah, Mitch, I can handle a coffee pot." The Clydesdale paused, dreading the response he knew was coming. "Could I interest you in a cuppa joe?"
"Why Mr. Highfield! I've never yet turned down a free cup of coffee and don't plan to start now. I've got some fresh bagels in the truck...ya hungry?"
The prospect of hot, chewy bread made the thought of entertaining this intrusive human almost bearable. Had Clay thought a bit more about it, he might even have found his thinking of someone else as "intrusive" ironic. "Sure, Mitch...and I wouldn't turn down cream cheese, either. Kitchen's this way," Claymore called over his withers as he turned away.
"Knock, knock!" Donaldson called as he entered, not bothering to wait for a response. "You like garlic or poppyseed bagels, Claymore?"
"Yes," Clay responded, pushing the start button on the coffee maker. "You got cream cheese?" he asked, grabbing three of each bagel, leaving two in the sack. Donaldson's eyes widened. "Uh, no...sorry. Do you have a toaster?"
"Nope," Claymore answered. Does this look like a friggin' restaurant? he thought. "But the coffee will be ready in a few. You know, I might have some marmalade though," Claymore muttered, opening the fridge. "Yah, there's a bit here...help yourself." He put the marmalade jar on the counter, and then grabbed a couple of mugs. They were roughly the size of buckets.
"Thank you, Claymore. I've been meaning to drop by and introduce myself, since I live so close. You know I moved into the old Munson place, right?" That was the farm next to his, and Munson had long been a source of complaints to the county farm bureau over coal smoke and late-night anvil clanging. Until the old coot stroked out last year.
"Huh. Never paid much attention to what happens around here," the Clydesdale snorted. "I tend to stick to my own business." Claymore suddenly recalled a story he'd read about a puppet whose nose grew when he told lies. "Coffee's ready. Black, or you need some milk, Mitch?" Claymore wished he'd thought of checking the milk's date before offering.
"Black's fine, thanks," Mitch said through a mouthful of bagel. "Anyway, I got moved into the Munson farm last April, but I had a lot of repairs to make, then there was spring planting, and I just managed to get the last of my braeburn apples before the October frost... ."
Yeah, that's great, Mitch, you're a farmer, real salt of the Earth type. "Uh-huh, frost was a bit later this year," Claymore nodded, tipping bits of onion out of the empty bagel bag into his hoof. Those little crunchy bits were just too good to throw away.
"And I figured it was time to get that harrow fixed anyway, so what better time to introduce myself to my closest neighbour." Mitch finished his introduction with a small nod and a smile that anyone else would have seen as friendly. Claymore thought it was smug. This guy is gonna camp in my kitchen all day!
"Okay, Mitch, well, I'm glad you finally made the time. You know I do all kinds of machine work, repairs, and fabrication, and I'm ready to help any time." Claymore pushed a slightly greasy piece of paper across the counter towards his guest. "Here's the invoice for your harrow repair. You writin' a check? You can pay by cash, too." Hope this hayseed gets the hint.
"I don't have that kinda cash on me, Claymore, but I'm gonna make this out for an even 200 Lindens." Already busy writing, Mitch missed the sudden flash of frustration that fell over the Clydesdale's long face as Claymore mumbled, "I'm gonna need some ID, please." Claymore tipped the empty bag up to his mouth, determined to get the last few onion particles. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed a familiar look on his guest's face, a look that suddenly filled the Clydesdale with shame: Donaldson was hungry.
Highfield, you're an idiot! Claymore thought, suddenly remembering that he actually possessed both manners and compassion. This guy's a farmer, for God's sakes, with a critical piece of his machine stock outta commission and a flat market for what's still in the fields. You think maybe he's not eating all that regular the last coupla weeks?
Clay put down the paper bag, lowering his head just a little bit. Mitch had finished writing the check and offered it to Claymore, but the Clydesdale avoided meeting his gaze. "You know, Mitch, I was just about to make some lunch, nothin' fancy, bunch of leftovers. More than I can eat. Care to stay for lunch?"
"I wouldn't say no to lunch, Claymore," Mitch smiled, "if you'll let me contribute to the pot. I've got some produce on the truck for you, huh?"
"Sure, Mitch, whatever." Clay smiled, almost as though doing so didn't make his face hurt this time. "Why don't you wait until after lunch, though? This won't take long to heat and serve." It was, for Claymore, a smallish spread of pinto beans, cornbread, coleslaw, stewed tomatoes, and assorted condiments. Mitch looked puzzled when his host produced the remains of a nicely browned ham shank. "Ham, Claymore? I thought horses were vegetarians?"
Clay snorted. "I've got, what do you call 'em, distant cousins on the coast who eat oysters, but I'm not exactly a horse, you know. You go up to one of those vegetarian-type four-footers and ask about the weather...just see what kind of response you get, huh? They don't talk much, you know." Mitch nodded, somewhat blankly.
"I was adopted by a farmer, Mitch," Clay continued as he set out plates and silverware. "You must know by now that nothin' goes to waste on a farm, and I learned to eat pork. A little chicken, too; always felt sorta guilty about that. I can't eat beef, because that's a little too close to home, you know?" Clay finished putting food on the table and invited his guest to join him. "But pigs, I never really cared for them at all, and as it turned out, they're pretty tasty."
"You are a curious creature, Mr. Highfield," Mitch remarked, crumbling cornbread onto his plate before ladling some hot beans on top. He paused. "Just what sort of creature are you, anyways? You said you're not a horse, but you certainly look equine to me!"
"Here, try some of these with the beans" Claymore said, handing Mitch a bowl of pickled jalapeno slices. "I started as a horse, Mitch, but the Great Bright Light...it changed me. Let me lay some big words on you, bipedal anthropomorphic equine. Basically means an upright, horse-like creature with human characteristics." Mitch sniffed the peppers, deciding they were not for him. "Yes, I'm familiar with the terms, thanks. But this 'Great Bright Light' that brought about this change, that's news to me. What was that, Claymore?"
Clay rolled his eyes slightly, catching himself before smarting off. Dial it down a notch, Gramps, this guy's just not as long in the tooth as you! "You old enough to remember the Bay Of Pigs fiasco, Mitch?"
Donaldson laughed. "I date back to the Kennedy era, Claymore, but I don't remember it. I was baby at the time!"
"Yeah, I was a foal then, still fully horse, in fact. I just remember bits and pieces of that part of my life; the rest of it I've discovered in doing research the last few years. That Internet they cooked up has helped a great deal, making things easier and faster, but the basics were pretty widely known before then."
Claymore put down his spoon and wiped his mouth, taking a little too long to replace the napkin on his lap. He looked away from the table, as though searching for something, but whatever it was could not be found anywhere in the kitchen. At last he turned to Mitch, who had also stopped eating and was now focused completely on Claymore's words.
"It was Thistletime, in what I later learned was 1962. I was a late spring foal that year and was still standing by my Dama after most of the other foals had been weaned. I was sleeping with Dama and the other brood mares, plus perhaps three or four foals in a fenced pasture. There was a bright light -- too bright to be the Moon, but too early to be the Sun. It was bright enough to startle us out of sleep, and we were very afraid. Too afraid to even move -- not that there was anywhere to run. But soon after the light, there was wind, soft at first, then louder, very frightening, almost as though it yelled while blowing toward us. The other mares bolted, and I saw one foal trampled in the mud, but I don't know what happened to the others. Dama nipped at me, shrieking in my ears, nudging me towards the far end of the pasture, farthest away from the rushing wind. I ran, wobbling and flailing as she screamed at me to run faster, faster towards the stock tank. She half pushed and half threw me into the cold water, screaming at me to stay inside. Her screams were drowned out by the wind, and I thought I too was drowning. The light and the noise then faded as I lost consciousness in the cold, black water."
Claymore took a long drink of coffee, draining his mug. Donaldson said nothing as the Clydesdale got up and reached for the coffee pot, shaking his head 'no' when Clay offered a warm up. "Go ahead and eat, Mitch, I'm gonna make another pot. You might be sorry you asked to hear this story. Clydesdales are prone to run at the mouth once you get 'em goin'!"
Donaldson laughed politely along with the small joke. He wasn't sure if his host was comfortable sharing what were clearly painful memories, but at the same time he found the tale intriguing and wanted to hear more. "Claymore, you're the only 'anthropomorphic bipedal equine' with whom I've ever spoken, and I don't know when I'll get to chat with another one. Go ahead and ramble, I'm not complaining. Besides, the more you talk, the more I get to eat!"
Claymore snorted, watching Mitch reach for the bowl of beans. Mitch wasn't sure whether the snort was derisive or amused, but looking at Claymore it appeared that he was smiling. Mitch smiled, then reached for more coleslaw. Fair enough! Payback for me hoggin' the bagels! Claymore thought as he slid the coffee filter basket back into place, pressed 'start,' and sat back down at the table. There was a lengthy pause before Claymore began talking again.
"It was daylight when I woke up, late morning, I think. And I was freezing cold. I don't know how long I was in that stock tank. My body ached, my head ached, I was nauseated beyond belief, and my skin was cold and burning at the same time. And then, I saw Dama. I could just poke my nose over the top of the concrete tank, and I saw her. Or rather, what was left of her."
Claymore sniffed and turned his head, becoming silent for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet and unsteady. "Dama was covered in Black Wings, they were thick on her, like an awful blanket of feathers. The cawing was deafening...there were more of them, just fighting to get at her, to, to feed...!"
He paused again, closing his eyes before continuing. "I couldn't jump out of the tank, I kept trying, but it felt like I was swimming in honey. I could barely move, but finally managed to scramble out and fell on the ground. I was...neighing...as loud as I could, but the Black Wings ignored me. It took forever to drag myself upright and stagger over to Dama; I kicked at the butchers from the sky, but they kept coming back. The pecking was hideous, but her skin...her body...it was, as though it had exploded into blisters. Her mane, her tail, her beautiful eyes; all gone."
Separate Ways
Posted 13 years agoA story in progress I've based loosely on interactions with an online horse friend. Go ahead, it will make you a better person, restore youthful vitality, and remove stubborn build-up! :P
