Unfogged

What's really good is day old drop biscuits made using the recipe on the Bis-quick box, especially if they were almost burned so the bottoms are all carbony goodness (they must be baked on a non-stick baking sheet, or they do actually burn instead of properly darkening.) Of course they're good fresh, too, but I like them better the next day (I keep them dry and uncovered in a breadbox to prevent sogginess.) I don't know why I like grain products to be well done-- well, that's not true of noodles-- noodles must be al dente-- but anything like bread or waffles or biscuits or pancakes will not please me unless it is very dark. Even toast I prefer if it has to have a bit of black scraped off of it first.

All this is to say that the rain continues, and it didn't get foggy tonight, so as compensation for not getting to go for a walk in the fog I'm eating the last of the biscuits left from Sunday night's dinner. I've put nothing on them, because that would ruin the pure biscuit experience. Some tea to go with them would be nice, but I'm about to go to sleep and don't want either to be kept awake, or to drink tea without caffeine in it. If the rain ends before afternoon, and there's fog, I'll probably miss seeing it. Then I'll have no more biscuits with which to assuage my disappointment, so I'll have to settle for just the tea. Then I'll cheer myself up with a good laugh at these pictures of the sexiest man alive. But I'd rather have fog.

Finally

Fog descended at last, to wreath late afternoon in gray vagueness, turning trees to smoky shadows and concealing the sodden distance. The pines dripped, and the bare knuckled mulberry twigs glistened with beads of water. Light faded, and I heard birds cry. They sounded like gulls, but I never saw them, hidden as they were by swirling mists and falling dusk. Now, night still resounds with dripping water, though the clouds have begun to break, and scattered stars are appearing. The fog has withdrawn for now, but the next storm will soon arrive. We are unlikely to see the sun anytime soon. That part of me which revels in dismal days is joyful. It springs from the year's decay like a rare fungus, waiting to be picked and savored.