For Pamplemousse

Something about the first real snow. It's quiet and clouded. I've made a fire in the downstairs fireplace, which is snapping away, waiting for Partner to come home. And no matter how good a manhattan is at all times, in all weather, for some reason it's even better in front of the fire, at dusk, when it's snowing. We're making pies and cranberry walnut bread here tonight. The cats are snuggled on blankets on the couch. We don't have to go anywhere tonight. We can sleep in tomorrow.

Earlier this week, Pamplemousse expressed some desire for snow, and I thought she was crazy. Today I remembered all the romance of snow. So, Madame PM, these snaps are for you!


















"Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air
Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven,
And veils the farmhouse at the garden's end.
The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet
Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of storm. "
Ralph Waldo Emerson, "The Snow-Storm"