Winter is the time for comfort, for
good food and warmth, for the touch
of a friendly hand and for a talk beside
the fire: it is the time for home.
It was 17 degrees when I climbed out of bed yesterday morning. Thank goodness it wasn't a work day because I just might have played sick. My house is so warm and cozy. They say that with the wind chill, it felt like it was in the single digits. We have had a rather strange winter this year. Above average temperatures with a day of chill tossed in here and there just to remind us of the season we are in. Of course, we still have a ways to go before spring arrives, so who really knows what February and March will bring.
My son came to dinner last night, and it did my heart well to see him. I cooked his favorite foods...baked ziti and toasted garlic bread, and we had a pleasant visit. He would love to come back here, and I would love to have him, but we both know that it's time for him to spread his wings. It's just not fair not to let him grow.
I realized yesterday that I am regaining my joy in cooking. For so long it had been a dreadful chore, but that's what happens when you don't have a kitchen conducive to cooking. My old kitchen was long and slim with a refrigerator far too large for the space. The stove was old and when you put the oven on, you had to be careful when you touched it for the outside of it would be burning hot. There was absolutely no counter space. But here, in my new home, it has been so different. My stove is new and the counter space adequate. I've even been thinking about baking again.
By the way, before I forget. My old place is up for sale. My landlady must have won the battle because she is listed as sole owner now, and she is asking $895,000 for the house. She has 'got' to be kidding. The electricity is dangerous, the pipes are rotting away, the boiler is on its way out, and there is a deep chill that flows through the house. But that doesn't really concern me now, for finally I am at peace.
Sometimes our fate resembles a fruit tree in winter.
Who would think that those branches would turn
green again and blossom, but we hope it, we know it.
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe