December 2nd

In living with Ed, I have to dance. The guy had been on his own all his adult life before he met me, and I was a rather unusual addition to his routines. (Remember, we have "nothing in common.") Sure, he, too, had to adjust. Living in a house that had furniture. Sitting down to breakfast daily, with me. Sunday dinners with seven at the table. All new and strange routines.

And then there is Christmas. 

It took years of gradual maneuvers before I finally brought in a real cut down tree of reasonable height to the farmhouse. (I first decorated a potted Norfolk Pine, then I bought tiny grocery store trees, until finally, two years ago, I bought an actual stand and an actual tree that would fit in it. In other words, for many Christmases, I danced.) And he's still not on board with gift buying, but he no longer runs away to the sheep shed when the boxes start arriving (instead, I quickly take them up to the second bedroom and I do not put them in the living room until a minute before the recipients arrive). Music? Oh that's a tough one. Ed likes quiet and so I save it for car rides and when he is engrossed with something in the shed.

I did think we were fairly safe with having one candle burning. My hygge winter candle! But, first -- Montana Forest went, and this morning he tells me -- the smell of the "Christmas Tree" candle (one I had used for several years now) chokes me. 

I do know people who are allergic to fragrance of any sort. I remember once buying a thank you potted jasmine plant for my daughters' music teacher. She was a gardener so I thought it was a good match. I was wrong. She asked me to immediately take it away. Flowers in the garden? No problem. Flowers (or perfumes or any fragrance) in the house? She couldn't handle it. But Ed isn't like that. He'll use his very fragrant in my opinion laundry detergent (because he thinks my environmentally friendly one is too wimpy). He never flinches with soaps, shampoos and the like. And his sheep shed? Let's just say it is very fragrant, though no company would package and market the smell that I so associate with the interior. (On my very first visit there, he deliberately baked up a pan of jiffy corn bread to disguise the odor. I wasn't fooled.) 

Since I don't care for pungent candles either, I pick my winter ones carefully. Some would say you can't smell a damn thing. And there's no sweetness to it. No flowers, no vanilla, none of that. All forest and sea salt and ferns. Still, as you perhaps know, none of the candle fragrances are "natural." My most benign candles are Scandinavian and everything about them is about as environmentally friendly as you can get but the fact is, burning candles is never totally nonpolluting. There are particles in the air and there is that gentle (in my opinion) whiff of something resembling a forest, but not really being of a forest. All that apparently triggered an asthmatic reaction in him.

So, no more candles? What would a Danish person do?? 

For the time being, I'm laying low with them (though he claims that hours after it has been snuffed out, the  post-candle air still irritates his passages). I may try one or two from my precious Scandinavian collection down the road. Maybe. And, because I see this now as a doomed component of my winter survival strategy, I ordered a fake candle, spending the late hours of the night reading reviews of which one appears to be most realistic. No, I don't think it will be the same. On the other hand, the Danish home where my daughter and her family stayed this summer had several similar fake candles scattered about the place. So maybe it passes the high Danish hygge bar? I'll let you know.

The morning here is gloomy. There is a light dusting. of snow from yesterday's flurry, but it's not something that'll make you love winter. The grayness pokes through. Ed had asked if we should put away the plastic Adirandack chair for the winter and I said -- no, it's the only spot of color right now!

I drive down to Madison Sourdough for baked goods, but instead of listening to music, I tune into an interview with Ryan Castenaz who wrote a book about... coffee.  In the interview, he spoke of the American phases of coffee consumption. Phase 1. -- the Folgers and Maxwell House era where simplicity ruled (think: Mr. Coffee), Phase 2 -- Starbucks and the like, Phase 3 -- when we pay attention to coffee origins and notes on the palate, and his hope for a Phase 4 -- when we also pay attention to the barista's creativity in imagining a coffee drink that is beautiful and sensual and surprising. He described one creation where he adds olive oil and egg white to the espresso cup. (You'll find other recipes in his published compilation.)  None of his recipes sounded great to me, but perhaps I am a mere neophyte, stuck somewhere between Phase 2 and 3. Perhaps I should expand my coffee worldview and bring this, rather than spruce candles into my hygge world?  

I can't even do a credible heart design with steamed milk. Maybe I haven't a creative barista gene.

Breakfast, noticeably without a candle.

Lunch? Well, there are cheerful roses from the grocery store. Not quite sure that they fit a winter cozy mood, but they are special.

We go out for a walk. I have to run two errands on Madison's east side so we pick Olbrich Botanical Gardens as our destination. On the one hand, the walk is not very long. With the closure of the Asian Pavilion (a tree fell on a bridge leading to it), you can walk the whole perimeter of the Gardens and be done in twenty minutes. 

We both agree that the prettiest path right now is the one between the birches. 

Still, it's good to see the whole professionally maintained winter garden. It makes you feel okay about your own efforts to create something pleasing out of spent flowers.

From there, eventually we wind up at Gail Ambrosius Chocolate Shop. I used to bake with Gail at L'Etoile, where we both were earning a little extra cash in our off hours. In 2004, she launched her dream of making chocolates and especially truffles in her own space. 

Unlike other local, very good chocolatiers, hers is a changing menu of fantastic chocolates. I wanted something to tide me over until Christmas Day and so Ed purchased a box of 24 of my own selection.

Heaven! Lemon grass with ginger, blueberry, cognac, cointreau, raspberry, and Lucille's vanilla. All infusing a dark, single origin ganache, made from cacao beans grown without chemicals.  Oh, and two seasonal chocolates thrown in: gingerbread and eggnog. 

It's dusky dark by the time we pull up the farmette driveway. Coming in through the mudroom and into the farmhouse kitchen, I miss that automatic winter movement toward the box of matches that will light a favorite candle. Odd that it should matter so much, isn't it? Of course, Ed is breathing easier tonight and that's a bigger sigh of relief. 

And then as the evening sets in, I take out my wrapping paper, and I do put on music because Ed has grown sweetly tolerant of it in small doses, and I set to work on the next boy's Christmas presents (darn those two boys with their large gifts!). Ed is on the couch, reading the paper on his computer. Specifically, an article about which has the greater environmental impact: the artificial tree or the real one? The article references a study, summarized in a 141 page document which, of course, he clicks to and reads now. Every few seconds, he calls out snippets of it: and you have to count the shipment from China, the unpacking of it at the dock, .... and with the real tree, the greenhouse where the saplings begin their life and... The conclusion? Never try to be righteous about your choice of product in terms of the environmental impact! It's complicated!

And so the day begins with candles and ends with tree purchase analysis, and if all this seems to be so antithetical to an easy slide into a joyous season -- well, you're right, it is. But life with Ed (or, you could argue -- life with Nina), requires these kinds of maneuvers so that we can stay afloat, together, in this complicated life of choices and preferences.

Want to share a cider? -- he asks then, wanting to demonstrate how we still do share so much. Despite our own peculiarities and idiosyncrasies. He gets a half smile for that one. Sure, would love that...