I took particular interest in the chickens this evening as they dallied with their entrance into the chicken coop. I even called H from his guitar strumming to confirm my naive musing that because the day was slightly longer, they, the chickens, were also delaying their departure of the day. H said I could be right but H is always one to look on the positive side, but then again I did note that the sky was brighter and the sun had moved a notch more northerly. We look for such things like that on this side of the Atlantic.
Santa came this morning. I didn't expect a late Christmas gift. I spied the mail man's van down the road and thought he might whizz by but no, he pulled in through the blue gates with his usual abandon and deposited a wonderful gift from Carol Field, all the way from San Francisco. The Italian Baker is going to make a huge impact in this household. Biga is new to me. It is a starter dough to those who are uninformed and somehow it seems appropriate to the New Year. Biga will play a huge role in the unfolding of days to come. My cookbook shelf is a little richer because of Carol and if you are reading this I will write to you personally to thank you for your kind gift and your inscription on the leaf as it means a lot to me.
Time moves on. The dogs are older and one the wiser. Sons are taller and all the wiser. I am feeling younger but that is not possible. I joke, botox or happiness. I mean the latter. Weather is bad. It comes in angry torrents and prevents much outdoor activity and still, the mild clime, unknown here in Winter has the flowers bloom in the usually dormant pots by the doorside. And I cook and bake and make the house and dream of words in my head that all make sense after midnight when my mind is at rest. It is then the words come, coherent and fluent and fluid if that is possible and there I lie, allowing them to flow, one after the other, like the most beautiful soft green grass that rivers hold, that swaying reed of words, one after the the other, one after the other, like music, no punctuation, nothing at all, clean thoughts, virginal almost, flowing out of me like love from a person who never heard of the word hate.