Gary Snyder, the Zen poet, lives on a hundred backcountry
acres in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada, meditates mornings, and thanks his
food before he eats it, clapping his hands together and saying “Itadakimasu,”
which is Japanese for “Thank you very much.” He likes a boilermaker at
dinnertime (a shot of bourbon and a tall glass of beer) and, on occasion, the
bullfrogs from his pond. “I follow the Joy of Cooking," he says. “You’ve got
to skin them and brine them overnight. She recommends rolling them in bread
crumbs and frying them.” He finds that vulture feathers make the best pens for
calligraphy, and collects them when he hikes. Some nights, he takes a blanket
and a thermos of sake and a star map, walks along a gravel riverbed
not far from his house to a spot among the mounded diggings left by the
gold-mining ventures of the past two centuries, and, by the light of a red
torch, works on the constellations.
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