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. . .