If You Have Ghosts

My old employer called and hired me to take pictures of all the branches. I met him in Nashua and was reunited with the work truck, which I have all weekend.

After thousands of dollars of repairs, she is retiring and being replaced by a newer model. Since I left, business has been slow, and the odometer hasn't spun much more since I sat behind the wheel.

I spent all day driving New Hampshire, working on the project. Fortunately, the fastest way was slow and off the interstate, and I spent a healthy amount of time looking at cows and listening to Roky Erickson.

The Boss gave me cash for the project, and I returned with a few dollars in my pocket -- more than usual -- but was able to pick up garbage bags, kitty litter, supplies from Home Depot for the house, and a cup of coffee to fuel the journey home.

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I'm rising dough made with my sourdough starter for the first time. I'm excited: no additional yeast, no sugar, no leavener. Just "the beast," water, and salt. And it's rising, smelling warm and beary. Fifteen hours to rise. Forty five to bake. My timing was off. She's coming out of the oven at midnight. But I'm going to assume that there's something in the house that makes the environment good for baking -- the temperature, the ghosts, the microbes, and I'll respect that spirit and see the project through to whatever hour presents itself.