the same, but different

Today my youngest one turns 27. Happy birthday, sweet little thing. A child of warmth, born on a cold day. But don’t fret – there are flowers to be had now and you don’t have to travel to Andalucía to see them. At the farmhouse, these are blooming for you now, in the coldest moments of the coldest month.







Me, I work all day long, from the predawn hours when it is so cold that I regret stepping out to catch the early light...











...through the generously sunny afternoon (with a high of 7 degrees F)...






...and the trip into town, for groceries, and a peek at the now officially frozen lake.






(I pass on the opportunity to go go with Ed to salvage his wreck of a car – one of the handful of items that lost faith in this world in the course of our absence and now needs extra coaxing to get back into the swing of things.)

I shovel the walkway to the farmhouse and we almost make it to Paul’s café, but not quite. I have to finish my work before tomorrow (I’m off to Chicago then for a quick celebration of 27 good years – not mine, hers).

So it’s as if Andalucía is forgotten, done with, right? You jump into your everyday and nothing remains of your travels but the dirty laundry and the light suntan on your nose. Is that it?

No. As we move through grocery aisles and I try to get into the mindset of planning meals for the whole week, Ed says – maybe you could make that seafood salad that we always had as a tapas or a starter...

And though the seafood isn’t like that from the market in Jerez, I do my best...






We eat already closer to our Midwest eating hour. That’s okay. The moon shines bright over our farmhouse. And that’s surely a good thing.