A Tuesday in the middle of February.
Don't hold me accountable for the text here: my thoughts wander on days like this. To the past, to the future. Just not to Tuesday in the middle of February.
It is for this reason that I'm bugging Ed incessantly about Valentine's Day. (That's a Thursday, unfortunately even busier than a Tuesday and still in the middle of February.) I tell him how he must make plans for it, how chocolates and champagne are never wrong, I tell him all this, though not with the expectation of observing Valentine's Day. It's merely my way of being grumpy. As in -- if this is all that February has for us, can't we at least go along?
This morning is busy, this afternoon -- busier. Sometime, the sun comes out and I ought to take note of that because I love sunny days so much, except on this sunny day I can only observe from within.
On the way home, it seems to me that the world is suspended -- between winter and non-winter, snow and not snow...
...satisfying no one at all.
In other news, we talk again about raising goats and chickens and other farmish things and though these discussions never go anywhere, they make us feel like we are being true to the land around us.
On the upside, the sun set significantly after 5.
...and I made thick cabbage soup. With turkey sausage. (Our meals seem both strange and predictable.)