The west-northwest winds are blowing a stout and steady 30-35. They whip around the eaves and shake the cottonwoods and junipers into an all-night uproar there in the shelterbelt across the pasture. A patchy crust of rotten snow clings to the ground; too little to be pretty, too much to be spring.
It’s January’s interlude, a breath just warm enough to cause everything to roll over in it’s mid-winter sleep.
Not a surprise, then, to have gardening books lying here and there, ready to offer up a line or two whenever I have a minute to read. Some are in the big wooden bowl on the floor beside the rocker, no fewer than three are being toted around in the knitting basket, and still a couple more are sitting at the bedside. Planning for spring.
It’s January’s interlude.
Not a surprise, then, to have found ourselves hiking in the canyon three times last week, going as fast as we could, so we could go as far as we could, in the skinny hours we had. I hiked the trail; they skipped it completely to crawl/climb the steep way. A bit surprised, they were, when we ended up at the top at the very same time. But going down? Yes, the sit-slide down the steep chute will win every time.
It’s January’s interlude.
Not a surprise, then, to find myself learning how to cook a wolf. It’s what you do when you’ve begun to feel the stirring of a culinary heritage whose time has come again. When an everlasting meal and the art of simple food and the words of Alana Chernila blend with your grandmother’s kitchen, and it comes about in small measures; in mayonnaise and in crackers, in pasta and mozarella.
It’s January’s interlude.
.
