Frosty Morning

My day is better when I start it with poetry, unlike this morning, when my first encounter was dog poop. It was full of bird seed, an identifier, since Coleman the black lab is our grazer, trolling for fiber I suppose. John calls them Shake and Bake Turdettes, and they are slightly more attractive than the Regular Turdettes, even to my sleepy eyes, although one worries when one is comparing the beauty of various dog excrements.
This was not the topic I had in mind on this frost-encrusted morning. There has been excitement for days over the prediction of “wintry mix,” that magical phrase which means all manner of imminent slush and slickness. The temperature teases, wafting back and forth diabolically, just above, now just below the magical number, 32 degrees. School is canceled, of course, business openings delayed. And yet, this one is already a bit of a bust. It is 8:30 a.m. and even here, in the country, where it is cooler than in the asphalt-riddled town, the window thermometer reads mid-thirties.
I was just in New Hampshire. Looking out the window during a morning meditation, it took a moment to realize that I was looking at horizontal snow. Oh, I thought, now we won’t go on our planned drive to Vermont. We’ll snuggle up with cocoa in front of the fire, it will all be cancelled. Then. . .wait a minute. We’re in New Hampshire. There are more months that are winter than are not winter. The state motto is (proudly) Live Free or Die. They ain’t no fancy schmancy cancelling!!! Not for us! Grab those gloves! Put on those ear muffs! Lace up those boots! No sittin in front of no girly fire for us! And that’s what happened. The two of us from the South tried to scootch further into the comfy couch, looking dreamily out the window, hands around a mug. . .twas not to be.
So it is this morning, in North Carolina, as the temperature edges upward that I scootch in. The skies are still gray, the day is still early. Brioche dough rises on the counter. I have fed the fire in the woodstove. Green coffee beans wait beside the roaster. I have ten pounds to do today, one at a time, as my custom roaster dictates, some to be carried, some to be shipped, all for Christmas gifts. Cinnamon and butter and coffee and cherry wood in the fire. . .today’s aromatic antidotes for my odiferous dawn. . .

Predawn Anatomy

The horizon is now skeletal, this early winter, this December morning. These early visions disappear in moments, never to return in exactly the same form. Five minutes after I shivered on the back deck, metal camera raised to my face, the color was washed away, the sun closer to the day, our North Carolina day. As far as I know, the sun is not aware of this planet that rolls so deliciously in its bath of light and warmth. Deliciously as if it were all play, a planet only now waking to gratitude and care for this gift given so freely - without ceasing - for billions of years.
Now, a bit later, the sun is up. The grass sparkles with frost diamonds; the comfrey slumps, its large furry leaves frozen in a pile, like sleeping, satisfied lovers. I have broken the ice on the bird baths; the squirrels have made their way - again - to the feeders despite all the impediments. I shall open the cold frames a bit later, to give the greens a more direct drink of light and to allow them to breathe. Oddly, closed in their glass box, a winter sun through below-freezing air can roast them as surely as could July. July is not their friend. July would be lethal. So Mama needs to pay attention. . .a calling to be sure. . .

Winter Salad. . .

My favorite gardening season is right now, when nights threaten to freeze everything in sight, and there are cozy boxes of salad, their protective lids in place. There are three different kales in this one. Peeking out in the box behind are lettuces, which are more fragile and usually give up the fight by mid January. I put the lids back on just after taking this picture, as it is supposed to be in the twenties tonight, the death knell for tender greens.
In the open beds just out of view are their hardier cousins: spinach, two different kinds of arugula, mache and beet greens. The glaring blank spaces are where the seeds and I didn't cooperate very well. Oh, and various weeds of course, or at least "of course" in my garden. I have learned to think of them as character flaws, simply enriching, making life more interesting.
It is a pristine day, this first day of December. Gusting rain yesterday, accompanied by the thrilling threats of tornadoes, cleared the air for today's sunshine, brilliant. What a devoted friend, this sun, who continues to show up, day after day. And this water, which wants to nourish all of creation. What friends we have.
The salad showed up on our dinner plates last night, along with roasted cauliflower and onions, a new favorite on John's low-carb diet, and grilled lamb chops. . .a swoon of a meal. A mini-version of leftovers turned out to be lunch today. . .blessings, blessings, blessings. . .