I built a fire in the center of the firepit and placed my drying rack above the fire as Grandpapa taught me.
The shower of sparks from the fire starter was more than enough to start the dried wood shavings burning. But starting the fire was the easy part, Grann; keeping the low fire burning all day with clean white smoke was more than I knew. Grandpapa made it look easy.
Once the fire was burning strong, the smoke began chasing me around the fire, until I remembered you saying, that smoke chases your shadow.
When the heat died down to hot ambers, and the fire's white smoke lazily drifting skyward, I suspended and arranged my thinly sliced, freshly soaked in salt-brine, filleted salmon, on the fish racks above the fire to achieve adequate air flow for proper smoking and curing.
I spent the entire day curing meat, with more headaches than results. But the smoking fish I am curing should last through the winter. I'm feeling better, at least my stomach doesn't seem to be upset as much. I should know in a few more days if I'm full-out better.
The smell of the smoked meat is wonderful. Bijou wasn't taken no for an answer today. Dripping fat, hot and inviting, she was trying to taste the air with her tongue. Her sad eyes were begging for a handout, and she was happy when she got a small treat. But she'll be happier for a meal come wintertime.
And besides, I'll decorate myself with red ochre from Strawberry Clay, and we'll celebrate a meal during our Gratitude Ceremony; and we'll feed our spirits.