ábyrgð

Today my upper arm jangles like the links hanging over the bicycle's crossbar, securing it to the porch pillar. Every day I crunch the little key into the lock, grind it against whatever crud has lodged in the works over two years of holding the cycles fast against kleptomaniacal, jersey-clad drunks. Then I ride off, holding myself on the heels of my hands, feeling wrists elbows shoulders -- one firm, one rattling over the potholes.

I imagine boney tumblers in the joint. Are they gritty? Frosted? Oiled too stingily or (I fear) too generously?

And where is the key? It must be here somewhere.

vetrarsúpa

some chicken
bit of beef
smoked sausage
cumin
paprika
onions
garlic
celery
bay leaf
cabbage
tomatoes
whole can good stout
(little cheap burgundy)

Put it in iron, put the iron in the oven over the flame. Time it right, and you'll have it in bowls by the time the first winter's evening falls.