Another frigid winter morning, motes of sunlight scattering like stars in the cold air, snow everywhere, an icy wind that goes right to the bones. Underwhelming to say the least, and I am not alone in my disgruntlement. When I tried to entice Beau into going outside a few minutes ago, he looked into the garden, gave me a filthy look, then turned his back on the door (and me) and trotted back to bed.
At times like these, exotic spices and culinary offerings from faraway places go dancing through my sconce, clattering their cymbals and shaking their tambourines in the depths of the pantry. How to begin? The day's opening gambit is a beaker of Logdriver espresso (strong enough to walk on) and a stack of cookbooks.
I feel a major stirring exercise coming on. Whatever happens in the kitchen this morning, it will be an impromptu creation and redolent of aromatic spices, something containing saffron, perhaps a few pomegranate arils, an anise star or two.
Just seeing a dish of saffron threads always cheers me up, and I wish I had enough hair to tint that fabulous color. Since I don't, I painted the front door of the little blue house in the village the precise scarlet of a bowl of saffron threads.
My culinary adventures will conjure sunlight and warmth and comfort, all three welcome on a deep freeze day when one can't wander about freely, and her canine companion won't go out anyway. There is an element of ritual to this morning's activities - perhaps my wishful stirrings will entice Lady Spring into making an early appearance. If not, the dazzling reds and golds make my heart glad.
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