Puddles and Light

A little melting was going on the village yesterday, and suddenly there were vivid colors everywhere. Cardinals and redpolls cavorted in the garden, and bells in the old crabapple tree oscillated back and forth boisterously. Puddles in the street were fringed with melting ice, reflecting rooflines and buildings, sky and clouds and light. Blue slush and old bricks make a fetching combination.

Snow rehomed by the snow blower in recent weeks was several feet high yesterday morning, but dwindled fast and was down to a foot or three by the end of the day. Ditto the deep snow on the sundeck which was too heavy for me to dislodge with fulcrum and shovel a few days ago and had to be left where it was.

It would be grand if the milder temperatures had lingered but they didn't. It was several degrees below zero overnight, and the village snowplow has just gone up the street tossing mountainous heaps of hard icy snow in the entrance to the driveway. By Thursday we will be back to an even deeper cold, high winds and more snow.

Imbolc has come and gone, and springtime may be happening in some parts of the world, but it is not happening here and won't be for some long time. There is nary a whisper of its coming, just Old Man Winter rattling his icy talons, roaring through bare trees in the garden and delighting in our glum expressions. 

In such weathers, I feel cauldrons of soup, turkey meatloaf and sourdough bread coming on, also molasses cookies and scones. Stirring up such things is comforting when temperatures plummet, the wind howls in the rafters, and one can't see her neighbor's veranda for falling snow. The teapot is warming, the kettle is burbling, and my favorite mug awaits. Time to break out Sarah Leah Chase's New England Open-House Cookbook and hatch a few culinary plots, also Alexandra Stafford's Bread Toast Crumbs, The Art of Simple Food (I & II) by Alice Waters and Diet for a Small Planet by Frances Moore Lappé. Yum, we can do this.