days of work

Don't even think you're going to get a sensible post today or tomorrow. Time is so tight that I passed on coffee at Paul's and lunch anywhere. I sit focused on one thing only: exam reading.

Breakfast is the exception. There must always be time for breakfast. I'll spare you the photo. (It was granola.)

After, I send Ed and Isis off to their work stations (the sheep shed)...











... and I dig in. If I can finish by tomorrow -- that would be grand. If not -- well, life will go on.





Late at night, after the last of the oysters, the last of the chicken soup, after one bad library movie, half watched while I tried to pay bills and attend to the bureaucratic details of life, after a bunch more hours reading and rereading papers, Ed suggested a walk. Just up and down the country road.

A rabbit scurried, a plane went by. We studied the trees that were cut back today to make room for the electrical wires. And then we went home. And I played some sad music to help me pick up the work papers again.

winter day

Take away the sunshine and the landscape changes entirely: it becomes an almost Pollock like canvas of black and white. I cannot emphasize this enough: winter on a cloudy day is a thing of stark contrasts -- without a hint of color.

I took an hour's break from grading to ski with Ed up the road again, by Lake Waubesa. A handful of photos surely prove my point (they are not photoshoped for color):

First, driving down, we have to pause for the gang of wild turkeys that always roams these parts:





Okay, we're at the park. A mere two miles from the farmette.  We step outside. Brrr... Even though it's some ten degrees warmer than yesterday (we're in the mid twenty range), without the sun, it feels cold. The wind doesn't help. I always admire men (it's almost always men) who choose to spend their free time sitting on frozen water, buffeted and whipped about by the biting winds, waiting for a tug on a line submerged through a hole in what has to be still thin ice.






What color you see is what the fishermen bring to the scene.






Otherwise -- a canvas of black and white. Beautiful, to be sure. Pollock like, no? Just without color.






And with the snow still clinging to one side of a tree trunk, it's as if someone inverted the black and white, to create a photographic negative.





Still, it feels good to be outside, to be moving, to be warmed up by the exertion, to be part of the game of seasonal change, not just looking out at it from the indoors. Isis, I say to the cat. Embrace winter! Isis ignores me. When he's not sleeping on the bed, he's sitting at the very edge of the night table, tail wrapped around his toes, with his back to the world of ice and snow.





Inside the farmhouse, on the other hand, we have an abundance of warm tones and pungent cooking smells. On this day, there are a few additional surprising twists to the usual fare. First of all, one daughter inspired me to reconsider granola (perhaps tiring of the repetitive photos of oatmeal for breakfast?). I can never fall in love with the stuff that's at the grocery store -- it always has too much of something I don't want. But she gave me a small pouch of good stuff for Christmas and it made me think -- I can do this myself. Make the good stuff right here. And so I do. If you want a fantastic fragrance for your winter home, bake granola! (This one has oats, bran, honey, blueberries and a touch of coconut and of course -- cinnamon.)





Which then creates a slightly different breakfast image. Granola! With yogurt and fruit.





The other surprise is also daughter inspired. My younger one gave us a bagful of one our favorite treats: oysters. Ed had to take on the shucking -- it's not easy! (Why is he in his jacket? It takes him a while to warm up after skiing. Possibly he'd do better if he wore something in addition to his t-shirt and year-round-all-weather jacket that has, according to me, zero warmth value. The man never wears sweaters or scarves. His concession to really frigid days is to switch from a t-shirt to an ancient cotton turtle neck. There you have it: his full spectrum of clothing accommodations.)






We arrange the oysters on a plate, throw together a mignonette sauce (to which we like to add grated horseradish) and we are set for a very special treat indeed.





Of course, that's just an appetizer. Dinner? That's easy: yesterday's roast chicken is today's chicken soup. We're using up all things in the refrigerator in anticipation of our Saturday departure. So the soup's with spinach!





You'd never know from reading this post that the day was spent mostly on grading exams. Fact is, it felt almost like a holiday despite the tall stack of papers before me. Good food, a good hour on the trails and I can almost forget the tedious stuff that made up the bulk of this day. Almost.

Christmas Day

Sunrise. Happy winter! Merry Christmas.

A funny thing happened on my way to the kitchen. I noted the stack of mail that has been accumulating on the table. Ed knows my (wimpy) rule: if weeks go by and the pile only grows, I sweep it all up and dump it in the mudroom. And so I start to gather up the papers, the envelopes and I notice that there ia a card stuck there in the pile. A lovely little thing with a message about Christmas and spending time with the one you love. I finish reading, put it down and think for a bit. Who would buy it  and then toss it aside like this?

I go upstairs and ask the pile maker himself. Amid shrugs, groans and boyish grins, Ed admits that maybe his good pal left it there the other day. Maybe so that he, Ed, would give it to me. That same pal who occasionally brings Ed a fresh t-shirt from the dollar bin because he knows Ed wont buy one himself so long as threads remain in the old ones and will only accept an off hand purchase from  his pal if he gets it from the dollar bin.

So, are you giving it to me? I smile at him, encouragingly.
Sure, it's yours.
Will you write that it's for me? Will you sign it like you sign emails? With LOVE spelled out in capitals? I hand him a pen.
Rueful grin, shrug, shy laughter.
Sure.

I'm all smiles and laughter now as I walk away with a card from Ed. A sweet beginning to Christmas Day.

Hello, Day! Sunny and cold, the way a special winter day should be.



sunrise, Christmas morning




the east dormer of the farmhouse gets that orange glow -- and the icycles


We eat our two meals today at the kitchen table. I insist on it. With the lemon tablecloth to make things cheerful.

The first -- breakfast -- doesn't come around until 11:00, because I want to bake something and, of course, that takes time. An apple cake. Ever since I saw those lovely ones in a Paris shop window, I knew that this must be our holiday morning meal.  For Ed, anything with apples is a winner. For me, the smell of baking cinnamon is a gift in its own right.









In the early afternoon, I stop by my daughter's for a last look at the big Christmas tree. She and her husband are making elaborate grilled cheese sandwiches. On this holiday, my girl gets ambitious in the kitchen.









It's only in the teens outside, but the air is calm and the sun is radiant and it absolutely feels like skiing weather.

Where to? -- Ed asks.
Indian Lake! I say this without hesitation. It's my favorite place to cross country ski.
The trail with the big hill in the woods? If I break a leg, you're on your own for the trip.

We've done the trail plenty of times, but  it's only our second ski run this season and Ed is tentative on skis until, with time, he feels in control again. Still, the lure of a snow packed forest, of the lake itself in the light of an afternoon sun is tremendous. We throw the skiis into the rusted Geo and head out.

And it is a beautiful day for skiing.




The trail is well groomed: you don't need much wax to pick up speed on a day like this. In the hills, the light starts to fade quickly in the afternoon -- which is at once beautiful and tricky on the eyes. Still, we have a splendid time.





And when a tumble comes, it's not even on the big downhill slalom through the woods. It's on a gentle slope. Life is funny that way.





But, we're intact -- no twists or broken bones! -- and we are rewarded with some of the most beautiful field and forest scenery.





Toward the end of the run, we pass the sledders. Including this trio on an authentic bobsled. The light is almost gone, but I can still pick out the joy in the faces of the little ones.









The moon begins its climb over the hills, the lake, frozen now, picks up the last colors of the setting sun.









Indian Lake never disappoints.






Back at the farmhouse, Ed buries himself under the old quilt. When you spend several hours outdoors on a day like this, it takes a while for your limbs to fully defrost. I turn to dinner preparations. Simple stuff: a roasted chicken, roasted potatoes, corn, salad. And yet, isn't it amazing how incredibly delicious a (free range) roasted hen can be?








Such a day! If asked about Christmas, Ed would roll his eyes for sure. Yet, as I watch him take pleasure in the small things we do today, I have to say, that (hypothetical) eye roll is pretty meaningless.





I understand, every day I fully understand and appreciate how lucky we are to have this time  -- to ski, to eat good, fresh and honest meals in the warm old farmhouse. I know it. But I especially know it today, this evening. The children (not really children anymore) are tucked in somewhere safely, snugly, the dishes are put away, the feeling of contentment is complete.

Christmas Eve

A day when momentum builds. So it's good to start slowly. Maybe taking your breakfast to bed?




Then draw in a deep breath and head out.

It's a huge dance, this wonderful day of Christmas Eve and every step has to be choreographed so that the entirety flows forward smoothly, as if on its own, as if it was meant to be, even though really, it is aided by the work of many, toward that one goal of coming together, joyously, to repeat traditions, to take note of the specialness of this time, this day, this Christmas Eve.

My own string of errands starts with a trip to the other side of town to the bakery that has Madison's very best bread. The line is already long. Of course. It's the crucial part of a good meal.









Then, the grocery store. This could have been done the day before, but there is something important about bringing home the food on this day. As if I'm saying -- here, this is how we do Christmas Eve. With food for the table.


And now we all arrive at my older girl's home. She, her sister, their guys -- all drove up from Chicago this morning and I breathe a sigh of relief that they're all here, that the roads weren't nearly as icy as we'd been warned, that we were able to find this time together on what has always been for us the best part of Christmas -- the Eve.

We open presents and again -- a sigh of relief: that the suitcase came, that I had time to wrap and place the boxes to join those from them underneath the tree. Because despite Ed's skepticism about the whole enterprise, gift giving is a huge part of this day for us: the sharing, the thoughtfulness, the accounting for the other -- it all matters. Indeed, it all is heartwarmng and beautiful and we take the time now to study each person's gift to the other, listening to the stories behind it, letting the one who receives it admire it or simply leaf through it, feel the fabric, think of a future use.









After, I retreat to the kitchen, finish off sauces and veggies for what is perhaps the simplest of all our celebratory meals: a dinner of beef fondue. No one else I know does this for Christmas Eve, but I started this tradition decades ago (my daughters regard the paperback fondue cookbook that I use as very 70s retro, with good reason! It was purchased then!). I needed something regally simple -- to preserve my sanity in the face of a cooking marathon that had me preparing four separate and important meals: Christmas Eve, Christmas breakfast, Christmas lunch and Christmas dinner. And the fondue stuck and now it's firmly in place and it's the one time in the year that I fuss with a meal that centers around beef.





The fondue forks are color coded, but we have various mismatched forks and it's all very confusing and we mix them up again and again and sometimes the meat falls off and we all hunt for it there in the small pot in the center...





Eating in this way takes time. You can't rush fondue. And that, too, is wonderful.

Ed joins us for dessert (there he is, sitting in the corner pretending that the holidays are a figment of someone else's imagination, even as he would have to acknowledge that the joy is very real)...


 


... a dessert that is a simple and simply delicious ice cream float prepared by those who know how to bring the good flavors of oatmeal stout and vanilla ice cream together.






And so it ends, this beautiful Eve. One couple goes off to church, another couple packs the car and drives north to visit (his) family there and Ed and I return to the farmhouse. If I had thoughts of watching a movie or writing here, on Ocean, those thoughts had to be adjusted as I cannot stay awake. Later, in the middle of the night, in that time between Eve and Day, I take a pause from sleep and as I write here, I think back and think ahead and I allow myself that moment of deep contentment that comes when you know that the ones you love are happy.

And I can take the time now to wish all my readers here, on Ocean, that same happiness -- on this day and in the days that follow. Be merry or quiet, whatever suits your temperament or inclination and be cheered by the love of family, friends, pets if you have pets! (Isis, are you listening?) Joy is a good thing to have in your back pocket. May you have a big chunk of it there today!

day before the day before

2:30 at night. My phone is ringing. No good news ever comes at that hour.

Except this time it is indeed good news. The man calling in is outside, delivering the suitcase and the duffel bag.

I won't try to guess their journey. One bag has a suspicious tag bearing the name Taiwan Speedy Travel Service, with a foreign phone number below. I look at them as one would look at wayward children. What on earth have you been up to? Never mind, let's get some sleep and I'll deal with you in the morning.

Morning. They're still early these mornings of mine. There's lots to be done before Christmas which, for me, will be celebrated on the Eve.

Predictably, the day begins with breakfast.





But just as I then get to making a to-do list, I get a message. One of the flights from our forthcoming trip has been cancelled, setting of a stream of consequences that we have to address.

I put it all aside and go to yoga.

It's cold outside and Ed has resurrected his 90% rust and 10% car vehicle. My own car is being inspected and so I borrow that thing, that piece of scrap metal. I cannot believe that there is a vehicle uglier than my sweet donkey car, but indeed, the Geo is uglier. I remember when I first met Ed seven years ago: I met him outside my home. He'd driven up in this same Geo. I wondered -- what kind of a man drives a rusty red car with peeling pink and purple stripes on it?

After yoga, I'm back at the farmette.


 






There, I attack the travel bags. Laundry, gifts, cookies that crumbled, memories, I have memories of times when I shopped for all this thinking it was all so pretty. At the moment it all just looks squashed and slightly tired from days of compression and travel.

But slowly the house is returning to an ordered state and as I am one of those who thrives on order, I relax. We reconfigure our travel itinerary for the forthcoming trip, then  I put on my puffy ski pants as Ed digs out our skis and we head out to our local county park -- a mere couple of miles from here.





Ah, Lake Waubesa is freezing over.





It's the first ski outing of the season. It may be cloudy, it may be close to dusk and it may be, therefore, without much color, but the landscape is, nonetheless, gorgeous. You can see from where the storm came. On one side, all tree trunks look like birches.





The snow is deep and very perfect for a ski run.






Through it all I keep thinking how truly lucky I am to be living in such beautiful country.





I tell Ed this, more than once today. When I flood him with good words, he turns shy. Okay, gorgeous becomes the standard response.

It's nearly dark by the time we get home. I take out rolls of paper and start wrapping the presents that had been buried for so long in a suitcase.