It was bitterly cold yesterday morning. Several inches of white stuff had fallen overnight, and ice lurked under every frill and flake and mound. Vehicles in the village had almost disappeared from view and were only visible as vaguely rounded shapes in the murk. The music of the day was plows roaring about and depositing the results of their efforts in places where they did not belong, like my driveway where they blithely dumped about two feet of hard rocky snow. Harumph.
According to the day's forecast, we were headed for another squall and several more inches of snow fell as predicted. High winds and minimal visibility were in the cards, and the weather pundits were right about that too. Lucky us. A fair bit of time was spent outside pushing snow about and exchanging banter with my neighbors who were all outside tossing white stuff around too.
What else to do on such a day? While the storm raged, sourdough bread, molasses cookies, cornbread and a cauldron of minestrone soup were conjured up. A fair amount of time was also spent huddled in a comfortable corner with Beau, a mug of tea, a good book and a shawl. Once in a while, I looked out at the falling snow, shrugged and went off to pour another mug of something hot.
The day was one of quiet contentment, and surprisingly, it was not adversely affected by the weather conditions—it tickled me greatly that the day was enjoyable and I was not letting Old Man Winter (Boreas) bring me down. Fimbulwinter or no, we (Beau and I) can do this, and by golly, we are doing it. Having said that, the aches and pains at the end of the day from flinging snow about are something else entirely.
Here we are in Deep Winter, trudging through it all. Please don't overdo the throwing of snow, dear Cate. I can almost smell the delicious scents of what you are conjuring up in the kitchen...mmm.
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