I am not a supremely knowledgable art spotter, but I can usually distinguish works done by well known artists. Especially when we're talking about artists painting in a style that I've tracked in museums over the years. But when this painting popped into my FaceBook feed this morning, I was stumped. Never would have I guess it's an Edward Hopper. (It's called Le Bistro and it's at the Whitney Museum of American Art, though it's not currently on view.)
In the blurb that was appended to the painting I read that Hopper thought that at the core he was an Impressionist, at a three dimensional level. (Meaning that in his paintings, he was always interested in the third dimension.)
Why mention it here? It's relevant! It was one of those moments when a chance reading triggered multiple reflections: about defying labels in people, in one self, about looking beyond the first impression, about how little I really know even when I think I know it.
It's a perfect morning for musing. The house is together, the tree is up and glorious now in its daytime rendition. And it is very very cold outside. A high today of 24F (-4C). The snow stayed put of course, but it's like a bread on its second day: credible, but not as perfect to behold.
The hens aren't budging from the barn. At some point they will feel the need to head out and search for a better world, but right now they're working through their first shock of cold weather. Ed and I discuss, as we always do, each year, whether they will need extra heating. When we get Arctic blasts, we do place a heater by the coop, but in these freezing but not beyond the beyond cold days, he's convinced that they can do as well as their other feathered friends out in the wilderness. I cant help but think that their skinny feet look awfully vulnerable and their combs seem to flop in despair. Still, they are Wisconsin chickens -- they have been through this before and they'll get through this again. Besides, we are told the this is going to be a mild winter (El Niño effect). We can hope. They can hope.
Breakfast. Cozy. And early.
It's hard to think about going out for a walk in this weather, but I do it! Ed has a work meeting so I'm in solo mode. Not wanting to make a production of it (so cold...), I walk the new development next to us. And I wonder why I don't stop at the coffee shop that opened there a month ago. I've taken the kids for ice cream plenty of times (exorbitant prices!), but a leisurely coffee, by myself, to people watch? Just once, on opening day.
The truth is it's not cosy. Done in white on white, with a big ceiling fan that feels healthy but cold, I can't get excited about snuggling in there for long. Coffee shops, in my mind, have to have that smell of freshly roasted beans, with the hiss of an espresso machine working full blast. Steamed windows maybe, with atmospheric art work on the walls. Wood, carpeted or bare, would work better than linoleum, cushions would be a huge plus. Fussy, aren't I? Yesterday my daughters and I were talking about how Vienna or Salzburg are fantastic winter destinations. Unimaginable without time spent in cafes. With the smell of coffee and cinnamon or cardamon. Cold weather countries (think: Scandinavian or Central European) have this down to a pat. We, in Wisconsin, should be equally capable of doing this right. My long awaited local caffe went with a different vibe. Miami Beach maybe. It does not pull at me. I'd rather drive further and do better. Or stay home and bake up a storm and drink my own milky frothy latte, or call it by its Austrian (German) milchkaffee. Sound good, doesn't it?
In the afternoon I pick up Snowdrop. She knows I'll ask her about her day, so she gives me a heads up on how things went...
We have a few errands to run and it's quite late by the time we get to the farmhouse. Still, it is a gratifying afternoon. All indoors. Except for the walk from the car, which she always chooses to do without her coat. It'll be -100 and she'll still ditch the jacket I'm sure.
Inside, a pleasant surprise: the tree.
We read. A lot. In fact, that's all we do. She reads, she eats, we read. And then it's dark and I take her to our drop off point, driving by the light of a very beautiful Beaver Moon.
I'm sure you can guess what I will have chosen to cook up for dinner: it's chili weather to the nth degree! It takes me several hours to chop, mix, and stir things up. After I'm done with it, I can see why it took so long -- the yellow pot is full! We will be eating bowls of chili all week! And that's a good thing.
