the light.

 Yesterday, I drove home in the gloom. The gloaming, I guess they sometimes call it.

We're in it now--the late fall, just a month away from the solstice, the light getting dimmer earlier. Leaving work and walking to my car as it gets colder. 

As I drove south on the long road before I turn onto my street, I glanced to the east. I saw light on the Wasatch. I looked west, and saw the sun sinking into the Oquirrhs. East, the high peaks white with snow, white with last light. West, the orange pink coral streaking the clouds. 

I thought, in two minutes, that light on the Wasatch will be gone. I thought, I maybe can grab my camera before it disappears. I raced into the house, threw down my stuff, grabbed my camera.
                                                                                         

By the time I got back outside, the light in the east was gone. But the pink in the west was still tangled in the trees.

Writing at midnight.

The Frost performs its secret ministry, 

Unhelped by any wind.

We've just come in from a dog walk in mist qua rain.

"Weird weather," I said.

Today has been weird weather--something about the sky and the imperceptibly greatening light, which, despite its infinitesimal increase, today felt dim and wet. I went out to get the paper with Bruiser. The walk and driveway looked wet but were in fact icy, which I discovered by slipping. Not falling, but clearly the whole situation was precarious from the get go. I went in and made myself some tea and read the Times.

Last night very late, my son came home from Sweden. I didn't hear him come in, but I did hear the dog hear him come in. He slept till noon. Yesterday, while he was laid over in some airport or another because of a missed connection, he said: "So what's for breakfast?"

I said, "I was thinking waffles."

"Waffles it is, then," he said. And I was true to my word.

My best friend made me these waffles when I visited her last summer, and they are in fact the best waffles I have ever eaten or made. At noon, or shortly thereafter, my son ate them while he was still emerging from his sleep. You know, that period where you're still assembling all the moving parts in your brain, not to mention your body? and you would really rather that no one is talking to you just now? even if you just came home from Sweden, and all that that implies?

After two or three attempts, we had a conversation or so. He brought me a marshmallow-y candy in the shape of a Santa. "Classic Swedish candy," he said. It was sweet and stretchy.

"How many hours of light were there?" the historian asked.

"Four or five?" my son said. "It was dark."

I think we're working on about eight around here, but the mist makes the light harder to interpret as light. I'm hoping the mist qua rain turns into rain qua rain, and the light becomes less ambiguous. Not to mention the air.

...whether the eave-drops fall 

Heard only in the trances of the blast, 

Or if the secret ministry of frost 

Shall hang them up in silent icicles, 

Quietly shining to the quiet Moon.

Dear winter that I hoped for,

I remember very well, back in November, when I said I hope we have a cold, wet winter.

I also remember my reasoning:

• if the winter is cold and wet, maybe we are reversing global warming? or maybe wishing for a cold, wet winter reverses the bad global warming karma?
• a wet cold winter is, by definition, winter, and therefore to be accepted as only appropriate.

I think that was all the reasons. I think we can all see that the first reason is specious, although not without a supra-rational, wack-intuitive, magico-logical allure.

And yes, of course winter is supposed to be cold and wet.

But winter that I hoped for, I hope you won't be offended when I say: you didn't have to be so literal.

Please no more windshield scraping,

htms. 

[point of clarification: I have loved the snow and I have loved this winter.] 

The Megastore recommends: special winter DON'T edition!

I repeat: not your friend. (Although...

1. Don't get up so early! Early rising has its bonuses--seeing the sun rise; quiet streets; it's just you and the birds communing. Perhaps, however, you may gather that these early-rising virtues occur at other times of the year than the present time. Like spring. Certainly not in the gloom of an inversion. For the love of heaven, burrow down, man! The Darkness is not your friend--not now, not when there is so much of it. Stay in bed--it's safer there.

...this song is dang catchy:)

 
2. Don't fret because you still have Christmas stuff up. Okay, Christmas tree. It's your own house, man. You can do what you want, decor-wise. Be careful with that candle, though.

you're not seriously saying that this...

is better than this, are you?

I made soup today and I totally garnished it in this fashion. Or not.

3. Don't fear the soup. We at the Megastore keep running into people who have an irrational fear of soup. Okay, it's our own children. The youngest ones. What gives? Soup is the staff of life, kids. It keeps you warm. There's none of that extra and senseless chewing required, like when you eat two Big Macs just because the second one is only a penny. With soup, you just slurp it down. It keeps you alive. It is savory. Soup is your friend. Your slurpy, soupy friend.

4. Don't go outside! For the love of all that's holy! It's cold out there!

That's right.

What was beautiful today?

Making breakfast after waking up to snowlight.
Watching Revenge of the Sith with my son, agreeing that we both love this much-reviled film, agreeing on what our favorite parts are.

Reading my students' work slowly. Thinking about how to respond.

The snow.

Seeing baby Gwenyth, all swaddled in pink.

Chatting with my daughter while she folded the laundry.

Doing a hologram-ic puzzle of The Avengers, which was hella difficult and nonetheless sort of satisfying to noodle around with.

Taking Deacon on an outing. Listening to him whistle in the back seat.

Coming home. Texting my son (downstairs): "Home. Need anything?" His reply: "A hello and a Gatorade."

Watching the Jazz blow a 10 point lead to Memphis, and lose, pleasurable because of the company.

A walk in the clear night, the snow lining the trees, the snow everywhere.

What to do with everything in your pantry.

If you have

• various, slightly shabby-shabby looking farmer's market potatoes
• some still virtuous greens, but looking back upon their day of sale from far away
• garlic
• leftover grated pecorino from a Thanksgiving day salad
• a red grapefruit
• some grapes
• pomegranates whose skins are leathery

 you can make

•  mashed potatoes with the skins still on, garlic (cooked with the boiling potatoes), and the pecorino
• greens, cooked at a rather high heat in the oven with olive oil and garlic and salt and pepper
• a lovely wintry fruit salad of the grapefruit, grapes, and pomegranates.

You will, however, have to gather the pomegranate seeds from hither and yon, and wipe up the juice from the floor and counter and yourself--it's possible you may have let those pomegranates sit on the counter a week too long.

Day Two, the Lights of Christmas Video Cavalcade!

Wintry.

 

*

"It sure seems dark," the historian said as we gave our tickets to the ticket guy and went down the hall, then down another hall, to get to our theater.

 "That's because we're sinking into darkness," I said. Yep, that's the kind of thing I say nowadays, super-poet-charged by all the pre-solsticean gloom. I think I have said something along these lines maybe four or five times in the last week. Sometimes, I give it a more hopeful spin: "Just a little less than a month, and then it will start getting lighter day by day," for instance, is something I've said recently.

Either way, sometimes you have to pick yourself up and manufacture a little metaphorical light, or you might slip on an icy little north-lying patch of gloom and not get up.

**

It doesn't help when, while you're walking, you listen to music that makes you search your soul and reckon with your failings.

***

It's also possible that the gloom can make almost any music have that effect.

****

During these dark times, you should make and eat this salad. It is a mashup of two salad recipes I consulted recently. This salad will cheer you up, at least while you're eating it.

Salad for the Dead of Winter

Take a bunch (and by "a bunch" I mean "fistfuls or a bag or a lot," not necessarily something sold as "a bunch," although if that amount is equivalent to my definitions, then by all means) of arugula

--Okay, let's pause here: it goes without saying that you will wash everything, right? And that after the washing, you will make sure that it is dry? Get a salad spinner if you don't have one. Entirely worthwhile gadget, in my opinion.

…a bunch of arugula, and put it in your salad bowl.

Cut the core end out of one head of radicchio; slice it into ribbons, and you don't need to be too fancy about it. Put that in the bowl, too.

Take off the outer, less attractive layer of the fennel (one bulb) and cut off the root end.

Cut off the long stalks and the feathery fronds. (Save them for stock, maybe?) Slice the fennel into thinnish slices

Put in some thin-thin-thinly sliced red onion, to your taste. (NOTE: when I made this salad, the historian put that red onion decidedly to the edge of his plate. Red onion is not for everyone, is the takeaway here.)

Thinly slice a handful of red radishes. (These can be optional, in my opinion.)

Please take a moment to notice how pretty your salad is at this point: green, red and white. Lovely!

 Now is the time to pick your wintry fruit:

Pomegranate seeds

OR Red grapefruit, sectioned, pith, seeds and membrane removed

OR Cara cara oranges

OR blood oranges

I made this salad once with pomegranate seeds and once with red grapefruit. I would have chosen either of the orange varieties, but the supermarket at which I was shopping was fresh out of fancy oranges. I pouted about that, but ultimately the red grapefruit was tart and refreshing and I liked the salad very well with it, so much so that when it came time to make the salad a third time, for Thanksgiving, I repeated the grapefruit and liked it again.

NOTE: not everyone will eat a salad with grapefruit in it. Too bad for them. More leftover salad for you.

I used two grapefruits for a lot of greens; one whole pomegranate seemed about right.

Finally, make your vinaigrette: 1 glug or 2 glugs of olive oil; a short glug of either sherry vinegar or champagne vinegar; a finely minced clove of garlic; salt and pepper. Whisk that until it emulsifies, then pour it right before serving over the salad. Toss it with your (clean) hands or tongs or whatever your preferred salad-tossing implement is.

You can add some grated Pecorino or Parmesan to this, but it's not necessary, not really. The salad tastes clean and astringent without the cheese. It wakes you up, which is a good thing when the world outside is dark, so dark it seems like it might never get light again.

But it will. It's less than a month before the days will start getting lighter, bit by bit.

You, Martha Stewart:

[NOTE: I would like to write a full-on parody of the Archibald MacLeish poem "You Andrew Marvell," because that's how I feel about you, the people. You deserve that kind of effort. But I'm not going to do it, because I am tired. So instead, I'm going to rave on about a hilarious and awful thing Martha talked about in the November issue of Living. Which I bought. Because I don't know why. Thanksgiving? Anyway:]

Dear Martha,

Thanks for the awesome recipes for Central European desserts, and the variations on a classic shortbread recipe, and, moreover, the variations on the classic caramel recipe, which I have been using for years. I got that recipe from another issue of Living, like, five years ago. The recipe has served me very well, and for that, I thank you, Martha.

Generally, I like the idea of you and your aspirational domesticity. Do you like to collect milkware? and old tin pudding molds? and all manner of ancient whatnot? Well, good for you, Martha. Someone needs to save that stuff, and make it awesome like it never was. Flea markets everywhere rejoice because of you!

Now: when I read that you were making tents for your boxwoods and peonies, I thought...well, frankly, I thought it was kind of crazy. I have some plants I love, but evidently I don't love them as much as you love yours. Then I read this sentence:

"I cannot recall where I first got the idea of tailoring coverings for certain types of plants (and even for garden planters), but we have been wrapping and sewing and protecting woody things like boxwood, tree peonies, clematis, azaleas, and many types of immature plants for a long time now."

This is accompanied by a photo shoot of sculptural looking pieces in the out of doors, wrapped snugly in burlap and stitched like a cross between the muslin mockup of an haute couture gown and a Christo installation. Evidently, Martha, your upstate New York farm is populated by burlap ghosts, all winter long. But good for you, Martha. You love those boxwoods and peonies. Protect away.

Then I read this sentence:

"I have a great group of talented groundskeepers, and each has developed his or her own techniques and methods and improved upon our system, adding flair and even beauty to the winter landscape."

So there you go. A great group, and so talented. Flair! in the winter landscape!

Off I go to buy burlap in bulk,

htms

Back in black.

Not really. More like, back in nightgown. Which is gray. But that is not my topic. My topic is snow.

I love it. In the wintertime, I am happiest when there is snow--snow falling, snow on the ground, predicted snow, the promise of snow. When people say, it's a beautiful day when it's winter and there's no snow either present or imminent, I feel profoundly alone in that conversation. Because there should be snow in the wintertime.

As I get older, I get that stronger urge to hole up in the dark months. I feel the darkness, and the darkness tells me to find a warm corner and stay there. I have piles and piles of blankets and sweaters and more blankets and coats and more blankets for this very purpose. I feel my bed is approximately the apotheosis of coziness, and I am drawn to it as well in the wintertime. But there is no sleep as blessed as that which takes place in view of a window through which one can see snow falling or fallen.

I particularly love the light snow casts. I know it's not really a source, precisely, of light, but there's probably a physics for why the night seems bright with snow. I could surmise--that the moon reflects more brightly the soft white surface, that the snow itself is comprise of crystals that must have a refractive capability, that the whiteness of the snow itself comprises a brightness--but my dad reads this sometimes, and he's an actual physicist, a physicist of light, to be precise. (Don't laugh, Dad. I'm a poet. I'm allowed.)

Over the course of this prodigious storm, I went out in a car to run an errand or two. On Friday morning, when the snow was wet and new, I drove across the valley for some groceries. On Saturday morning, I drove across the valley for a boutique my daughter and her friends put on to raise money for their charitable project. This morning, I drove across the valley to Millcreek where two of our favorite farmers was selling winter vegetables. When I left the west side, it was intermittently sunny; up on the bench, it was misty and there was still snow falling.

"You made it," one farmer said, handing me my eggs, to go with my red bok choy, chard, carrots, and fistsful of garlic (<< gratuitous vegetable details).

I drove myself and my vegetables home carefully, attentively. No one really loves driving in the snow--in fact, almost everyone I talk to about the snow has the "I hate to drive in it" caveat--and I saw some damage on one of my drives. But the fact of the snow, the fact that winter might really be here, after such a beautiful, warm--maybe a little too warm, but it's wrong to complain about that, I know--autumn: I could not be happier.


Tonight when we took Bruiser out, it was so cold. The sky was clear and starry. I made a note that I need to pull out more layers for walks at night. Bruiser pulled up and lingered at new stops and old, sticking his nose into the snow, his tail high.

Soup (episode I don't know which one--I've lost track).

Tonight, for dinner, tortilla soup, vegetarian style. This soup would have occurred last night except for the fact that I had elided, like, four critical ingredients when I was at the store. But that's okay. I scrounged another dinner out of stuff we had/I had recently bought. So I won the kitchen derby on Sunday night, and went on to hit it out of the park on Monday night, tonight: score!

Tortilla Soup.

Take your corn tortillas, about eight of them. Lay them neatly upon one another on the counter or cutting board, if you're tidy like that. Slice them into thin little ribbons, or "matchsticks," as the fancy cooking wizards say. Toss them with olive oil and salt them. Put them on a baking sheet into a 350 degree oven for 10 minutes or so, until they are crispy but not scorched. Remove them from the oven and try not to eat them all, because they are delicious but you will need them later.

At the same time, especially if you are a multi-tasking genius, take about 20 (why 20? I don't know. It's a good number. A lot of good things ring in at 20: 20 years old; 20 dollar bill; 20th century had some good things in it, like rockets, robots, the internet and the Beatles; etc. I'm sure you can think of other instances of the goodness of the number twenty--) cherry tomatoes and slice them in half, toss in a little olive oil and salt, and roast them till they shrivel up a little. This might take 40 minutes, so it's probably a good idea to be roasting the tomatoes and toasting the tortillas at the same time. You don't have to take my advice here, but I think you might as well, because, you know, time is money, time's a-wastin', [insert other homey advice/adages about time here].

[NOTE: The above are accoutrements. They are garnishes that are essential to the character of the soup. There are a couple of other garnishes (see below), also essential, but they don't take any preparation. They take purchasing. Which I did, today, but not yesterday. But: sufficient unto the day itself is the garnishing of the soup! Check it, it's in the Bible.]

Now we're at the actual soup. Luckily, it is easy as pie. Easier, way easier. Pie is difficult. But this soup: easy.

Dice up an onion and mince three garlic cloves. Saute in some olive oil for a couple of minutes. Add one can of crushed or diced tomatoes, along with 1 t. cumin, 2 t. ground coriander, and 1 t. cayenne--yes, cayenne!--pepper. Let this cook for five minutes. Then add one cup of broth--I'm going to recommend, yet again, the vegetarian bouillon cube as an essential pantry item--and blend all of this in your blender. Return this to the pan, add 5 more cups of broth, and simmer for a bit.

To serve:

Put some cherry tomatoes in the bottom of the bowl, along with a few julienned sun-dried tomatoes, and a slice of goat cheese, crumbled. Ladle the soup over. Strew a fantastic amount of the crispy tortilla ribbons on top, and eat it right away.

A salad, either green or fruit, would not go amiss.

Winter/spring.

Today, I just bought, on sale, a walnut-colored corduroy jacket, and I am pretty stoked about it. That said, corduroy is a fall-ish, winter-ish fabric. Ditto walnut as a color. When the jacket gets here in, like, a week, there will be even less of winter left than there is now. Today, after having spent roughly from 8 a.m to 4 p.m. in my window-less office, talking (and not-talking--curse you, you no-shows!) to students, I walked out and it was raining. The sidewalks were wet. Winter rain, or early spring rain? or pre-spring rain? I tell you, I think I could feel the thin, raw edge of spring, even though it kind of started to snow on the way home. But just a little. Maybe a spring snow? That's a thing, right?

Winter: a pro/con analysis.

Yesterday I dreamed that I took a Bichon Frise dog over to Oprah's house, along with all my youngest son's friends and I think my former was in there too. It was very bad manners, clearly--in real life I would never invite so many people plus a dog to Oprah's.  By the way, she was none too happy about that dog.

 Today, the day it snowed, I felt some irritating little illness waiting in the wings. So I read and slept and did some dishes and laundry and laid around some more. We watched a lot of Downton Abbey. The second season is even soapier than the first season. Sudsy. I can't wait for the next episode.

I hope it snows all week.

(p.s.: happy birthday mom!)