WUI

Took the final tonight, seven pages, not so bad, a few educated guesses, then rode home on the outskirts of a thunderstorm jaundiced with intimations of tornado—one that never lived up to that ominous promise, though it did shower Minneapolis with egg-sized hail. Decided to observe the occasion with the wet kiss of drink, three times, as the Poles do, though I took mine all on the mouth and not on the cheek—vodka, Chopin, from the freezer. I have been rereading of Pan Zagloba and his amazing exploits alcoholic in Ogniem i mieczem, of gorhalka (which I interpret to mean “grain alcohol”) and of Troyniak (“mead”). One year behind me. I have so far to go.