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The groans, check, sleep, yeah, I had some, coffee, oh yeah, let’s boil them beans and make it quick, that’s his job, has been for better than 40 years. He’s like some chemistry nut, water, grounds, cold water, timing, it’s more than the me in me, so coffee, is his. And he is really good at it.
He likes pancakes, I like making them, but only after I fry a rasher of bacon, then I drop his two eggs. They almost bubble in the cast iron skillet, I mind his, he likes em over, and a bit runny. After I rescues his, I drop two for me, and I bust em, oiled hard I like them. I like my eggs sunnyside hard.
They sit downsmoke of the fire. There resting next to the crisp bacon strips, he offers me some coffee, I hold my cup out, yes sir, buddy, top it off, and thanks. It may be a bribe, and it’s working for sure.
I drizzle some bacon drippings, it swirls, in goes a round of batter, I ladle it thin, it’s bubblin’, the skillet so smokin’ hot. I flip them quick, brown, golden brown, out it comes another laid in, the stack builds, he can’t wait. One gets folded, in goes a strip of bacon, he chomps, the lake gets a loud, oh yeah, he looks happy, like big kid happy. Without asking, he lays in four splits of dried pine we put up yesterday, the fire thanks him with sparks, they cast up, sure, some land in the pan, and who cares, not him, not me, and not the seagull floating like a morning kite, who may very well end up with the leftovers, but between he and me, well, we’ll have to wait and see about that.
- The Trout Whisperer
