Arriving home from work in the evenings is always an adventure. I work every other day, so the routine is predictable. Though, of course, with most things in life, there is also constant change. I want to relax, have a seat on the couch and enjoy a hot cup of tea. The kids welcome me home in their own loving ways: our daughter peers out from behind her book, our second child breaks his focus from the piano long enough to ask what I brought him, as our youngest happily announces that he wants to nurse, "Now, Mom, now!".

I aim to ignore the aspects of family life which are not as conducive to relaxation: dishes, small piles of paperwork, crackers on the carpet. Sometimes I forget that people without children still have to wash dishes, clean their homes and do the laundry.

The other evening I received a most welcome surprise. As usual, I was home at dinnertime and I wanted to be fed. If I don't prep something ahead of time or get creative with the slow cooker, my work is cut out for me in the kitchen. My husband was setting bowls out onto the table, and soon thereafter came the soup spoons on top of cloth napkins.

"I made some lentils."
"Oh, thank you so much."

It was that easy. I didn't even have to ask. The salt, the pepper, the olive oil and glass of water were all there waiting for me. I sat down in my usual seat, and I didn't get up until I was done.

Why do I love the cold of winter?

There is a certain isolation that the winter's chill brings on. There is a silence and a stillness outside this time of year. I think of the cold weather as something to embrace. I am refreshed by its sharpness, and I am up for the challenge of maintaining a comfortable warmth. It brings a lightness to my insides, and a smile upon my face.



Good Hours

I had for my winter evening walk--
No one at all with whom to talk,
But I had the cottages in a row
Up to their shining eyes in snow.

And I thought I had the folk within:
I had the sound of a violin;
I had a glimpse through curtain laces
Of youthful forms and youthful faces.

I had such company outward bound.
I went till there were no cottages found.
I turned and repented, but coming back
I saw no window but that was black.

Over the snow my creaking feet
Disturbed the slumbering village street
Like profanation, by your leave,
At ten o'clock of a winter eve.

---Robert Frost

After twelve years of living with a wood stove, I am now skilled in the art of making a fire. The bed of coals pictured above is the result of tending the fire all day. Every half hour or so I check in with it, open up the door and see what the situation calls for. Maybe the coals need to be raked in closer to the front, or perhaps another piece of wood is needed to burn with the one already inside. It is interesting to watch how the flames travel upwards, almost the exact opposite of water, which falls, and always finds the lowest places in any given situation (that I am aware of...I'll keep my mind open for a correction on that).

Gathering, chopping, stacking and carrying the wood is no easy task. The wood stove cannot be compared to having constant needs, like that of a child. It is more like a trusted friend, a devoted companion. It asks for a mutual exchange: seasoned wood, fresh air, and a bit of maintenance. Though in return, it gives a warmth like nothing else.

The persimmons were incredibly delicious this year. With the frost, the fruit softened inside, and became slightly more sweet. When most trees are bare of their leaves, this tree and its fruit welcome the sturdy cold of late autumn and winter.