so hygge or kurashi?

Some time in the predawn hours, Ed asks -- are you awake? You know how that goes: I am now! He's mesmerized by the overnight snow, the gentility of it. The stillness of the night scene. 

I do reach for my (lesser) camera, but I've been in this moment before, where the beauty of a scene is such that you have to witness it firsthand. A photo just wont do. But, I am awake, and without much thought or concern about the final product, which I know will be inadequate, I snap away. 

(from the kitchen, onto the snowed up screen porch..)

(from the art room)

(from the bedroom)

And now I may as well be up. A little early for me, but winter mornings are indeed beautiful. 

Hey animals, an early meal for you today!

And then I focus on our own breakfast, which, as yesterday, is in the warmth of our kitchen. I cannot tell you how much I love this kind of beginning to a day!

But here's a bother: I've stopped the daily hikes. I have to rethink my strategy going forward. Winter couch potato-hood is not a good idea.

For now though, I make myself a cup of Strawberry Shiso tea and luxuriate, chatting to friends (who live in warmer climes), reading, planning for the month before me. And in the realm of idle and inconsequential thoughts, I think how absolutely special these teas are -- this one, from Rishi, is a pure botanical (no caffeine) and it is not at all what you would imagine for a tea based in large part on strawberries. There's no sweetness to it at all, perhaps because of the Shiso, which is a Japanese plant that someone described as a bit spicy, a bit green and earthy. It's from the mint family, yet again -- you'd never guess that. Of course, all this conjures up a Japanese tea drinking image and this brings me back to the idea that maybe Kurashi is not such a bad idea after all (see yesterday's post)? Maybe curating special corners where you can have only that which brings you peace, joy, beauty, is worth aiming for? 

When you are retired, you can think about such stuff. 

Okay, can you see where my morning has landed? And stayed? (On the couch.)

In the afternoon, I pick up Snowdrop at school and we go back to my mom's place. She had a broken lamp, I took it home, Ed fixed it, so I'm bringing it back and giving Snowdrop a chance to connect to the older person's setting. (And yes, Snowdrop does have a bruise on her forehead, the result of being accidentally whacked by something a younger brother was swinging.) 

On the drive to the farmette, I get into one of those conversations with the little girl where I never win. Today, she got a candy bar from my mom. I tell her -- okay, you can have it, but it's super large, so just that for a sweet treat. She persevered with her position: mommy would let me have a candy bar PLUS a caramel!, adding -- I distinctly remember her letting me do that and I dont even know what distinctly means! I had to laugh. 

She got to eat her candy bar and the caramel.

At the farmette, somewhat defiantly, she climbs her tree (my mom had told her she thought it was dangerous).

Evening -- I am with Ed. He's still recovering and I am absolutely determined not to succumb to whatever dragged him down. Perhaps the Strawberry Shiso tea helped because I have shaken off all advancing germs and viruses thus far. 

Beautiful night. And guess what -- we're back to popcorn for our movie viewing! Total pleasure.

snow

One of winter's mysteries is how much snow a day will bring. Even if the forecast tells us there will be snow, you're never sure if you will need to shovel your way out or if it will all fizzle to a dusting of wet flakes, ones that will rapidly melt in the course of the day. Snow is like a cat on the prowl: it charts its own course and rarely lets you in on the secret of where it will choose to land and how much of its beauty will cover the landscape outside your window.

So yes, they said it would snow today. Ho hum. It's November. Snow is a rare event this early in the season. Besides, last week we were topping 70F (21C). We're not in the snowy frame of mind.

Nonetheless, we woke up to this pretty farmscape:

The Bresse hens are having they first experience with snow. And I have to say, they are lucky to be tasting this white stuff, because the expectation had been that by winter they would be in our freezer. Ha ha. Not gonna happen.

One hike out and they retreat to join the others, who never even bother to leave the barn.

Breakfast, cosy, hygge, even as I know that this is last year's concept. I believe the new buzz word this year is "kurashi," which I understand to mean creating a tidy lifestyle for yourself. [You can read about it in the NYTimes today here. I did get a chuckle at the end, where a psychologist scoffed at the idea of aiming for such perfection in your everyday. People are complicated and they have complicated relationships and this, not clutter, is a source of anxiety for many. To quote this clinician: "If my clients all lived in houses filled with junk but cleared the toxic people out of their lives, I'd be fine," she said. "Keep the old suitcases: get rid of the grumpy uncle." So true.] 

Me, I'm still in love with hygge, so here's my winter breakfast. Ed's eating chicken soup, I'm still on croissants, but we're on winter placemats now. And the candle, a Portuguese Olive Blossom, reminds me of winter trips Ed and I took to places where olive trees released their fruits starting just about now.

This day is memorable not only for its first real snow this year (looking so fine on the firs across the road!)...

... but also for my mother's birthday. She is 99 today. She claims that she does not celebrate such stuff but honestly, I'm not sure I believe her. I pay her a visit and bring her the one thing she really does want -- authentically brined sauerkraut.  

She's doing ever so well, now chugging' along onto her hundredth year of life.

And from there, I go to pick up Snowdrop. It's a complicated day, but not so complicated that she wont take time out to enjoy a run in the snow.

After she's nourished, rested, dressed, I take her to dance. 

And there's more for her afterwards -- a scout meeting. I help her change and gather her stuff and off she goes!

And only then do I drive home. The snow is still with us, swirling as it does at night, right into the headlights of your car. 

All is calm. All is very beautiful.

Monday

One good way to start the week: have breakfast with a good friend, first thing! Well, after feeding the animals.

(No great pics today, but hey, I'm teaching myself not to erase. My new strategy: never press delete until you say the magic words. And never say the magic words until you have checked that everything is uploaded safely onto your computer.)

Not especially stunning, but very much Novemberish:

My friend Barbara is in town and we have a very long breakfast together at Madison Sourdough. The sun streams in, the pastries are perfect, the morning hours slip away in animated sharing...

Honestly, I can't imagine a finer set of early day hours. And mind you, we are in for an Arctic blast this week, so we need to tuck in all the warm glow we can get. Friends do that for you -- they wrap you in a blanket of sweetness. The almond croissants are just icing to an already delicious cake.

In the afternoon, Snowdrop is at the farmhouse. School is closed today (again!) and so she comes straight from home, not as tired, not as hungry as on school days, but equally eager to repeat favorite routines: outdoor run, indoor read, play.

And very quickly the day fades into dusk, then evening. I return the girl, and head back home to the cats, the chickens, Ed. With so much love...

Sunday

Oh how quickly they fall! One step out into the real world (airplanes, airports, dinners -- in other words, life in the more normal mode) and my never-wanting-to-travel or indeed, to-leave-the-farmhouse beloved is under the weather with who knows what virus. (Not Covid.)

Our day is structured carefully around this. I'm back to full time animal duty...

(so pretty outside, but yes, very cold)

[You could be looking at a lovely photo of farmette lands under a light dusting of snow]

And breakfast is together, in a way.

[Here, I'd put in a pic of breakfast in the living room: Ed is under a fluffy quilt.]

Then he sleeps and I continue with holiday shopping. All on line. Gone are the days of crazy malls and long lines at stores. I suppose there is a loss. The social aspect (is there a social aspect?) flew out the window. But for a person who never really liked shopping, it is indeed fabulous to search websites rather than real sites.

I do go out, for my walk, but alone again. Ed sleeps. And sleeps. And sleeps.

(well, not entirely alone)

[A beautiful closeup of sandhill cranes]

(the air is crisp! on the shores of Lake Waubesa...)

[The lake is reflecting a dramatic sky of grays and blues. Stunning!]

And then I come home and do the stupid thing I do every several months, without fail: I accidentally erase my camera card, so that all the images of snow dusting, of our unusual breakfast together, of cranes and an absolutely gorgeous Lake Waubesa have disappeared in a puff of smoke. Yes, I know there are data recovery programs out there. My camera has an unusual card. It's unconventional formatting does me in. Future lesson, since I am never going to NOT make this goofball mistake -- go back to using standard photo cards which can be salvaged when someone idiotically presses delete before she has finished downloading the pics onto her computer.

In the evening, the young family is here for dinner. Great moods, lovely smiles. And I am not going to accidentally erase these photos! 

And later, much later, Ed and I are back on the couch for our evening together. I mean, there is no way that we can stay out of each others germ space. Might as well snuggle under the same couch quilt. Besides, there is a chocolate to share.

with love...

Saturday

Every day has its highlights. Unless you are in the thick of tragedy, even the most ordinary 24 hours will have you thinking more than once -- wow, this is nice! For me, it's routine to ask Snowdrop at pickup time -- what was the highlight of your day? Let's recall those before we turn to all that was imperfect.

Take a day like this one: seemingly plain. Ed and I saw no one of note, and we went nowhere special. And yet...

I was up my usual time. It had been a chilly night. The water bowl where the cheepers pause for their midday drink was frozen and that cold snap was not letting up. Still, I'm getting used to the shift toward winter. The walk to the barn is invigorating!

I have three errands to run and they are all sweetly delightful. The bakery (what could be better on a cold morning...)!

Then, my Saturday pickup of farm produce from our local farmers, and this includes today a Thanksgiving turkey. It's small this year (the choice was small or large: we don't need large!), but looking at it just makes  me smile. A family holiday, so soon!

Onto the post office. I had to wait there until it opened. A line formed. Behind me. It's funny how that works: if you have to wait 15 minutes for something to open, you are content to watch those minutes fly by. You take out your phone, read a newspaper article or two. Life is good. On the other hand, if you are in line behind a person who takes 15 minutes to take care of their shipping needs, you groan with impatient frustration. 

No frustration for me.

Breakfast, with bakery treats and with Ed. Late, but he doesn't care and I certainly don't mind. Hot milky coffee, a croissant, fruits. And the bearded guy. Perfection.

The afternoon had two stellar moments. First, I asked my daughters to Zoom with me about the forthcoming celebrations. We need to coordinate and it's easiest if we bounce around ideas together. They delighted me by bringing their kids to the call (except for one who was napping).

The level of joviality immediately rises when the wee ones are present!

A call about holiday get-togethers, with grandkids attending. What could be better!

In the later afternoon Ed takes the rein in pushing the two of us out the door. It was threatening to be a repeat of yesterday -- me pacing the house because I did not feel the motivation to do a walk outside. Yes, it's gray out there. Yes it's cold. But surely we can find some pleasure, even if only along the trails of our city park by Lake Monona.

We do! It's crispy fresh, with an occasional snow flurry. There are birds on the water: American Coot I think, though I'm not sure...

This is not our favorite park for walking because you can always hear the hum of traffic somewhere in the background. But because our expectations are never high, we walk away deeply satisfied and today is no different!

We drive home. There is a dusting of snow outside. You can't call it a snowfall really. More like confectioner's sugar on a freshly baked cake.

At home, I open the file where I have begun to dig into my Next Great Writing Project. 

Do you see why I would be so tickled with this day, even though really, nothing happened?

Oh, and supper was very insignificant. Eggs, veggies, salads. And chocolate!

With so much love on this beautiful November day...

tumble

No, silly reader. I did not tumble or even stumble. It's all in the temperatures. Yesterday's high -- 72F (22C). Today's high? 35F (less than 2C). I mean, really! That's just mean!

It's not unexpected, but it is sudden. Like watching a train coming at you: you know you'll get hit, but it still hurts when it happens.

The chickens are hiding, the cats are hiding, Ed is hiding. Me, I set out to feed them all. First, the little animals. Outside.

Then big Ed. And me. Dance is there just for the face rub.

It's a perfect day to embark on the next writing project and yet I cannot do that without giving Like a Swallow one final push. I've been horrible at attending to my marketing obligations and the time is fast approaching when this book will be old news. It's funny, isn't it? A newly published work has value, but once it's been around for a while, it's yesterday's reading material. People always want to see what's coming around the corner. To stick with the train analogy, a book that came out a year ago is like a train that passed your station. A memory of a trip once taken. So, today I toot tooted LaS and maybe tomorrow I'll start on a new track with some new ideas.

In the afternoon, I once again break out of the normal schedule of keeping Friday's childless here at the farmhouse and I pick up a bundled Snowdrop. 

No big play outside today! Too cold! Our bones need to adjust to the seasonal tumble out there! Still, she insists on the tree. Coat, scarf, cap tossed aside.

But that was just a moment of insanity. She rarely wears a coat on her walk from car to house. Once inside, out came the blanket. Ahhh....

So, did this cold day end of my walk-a-day pledge that had started on the day of my eye crash in France? Yes and no. I missed my outdoor hike, but I tried to make up for it with an indoor back-and-forth. It was really boring and I vow to never have to do that again. But at least I closed some of my exercise rings!

Fish for supper. Somehow it so often works out that way on Fridays! Oddly conventional, without any conventional intent behind it. The cats are happy! So are we. Especially when the time comes for a shared chocolate for dessert.

records

Are you tired of hearing that a weather record was set? Okay, I'll zip over that fact really quickly: for November 10th, the record high for Madison, Wisconsin was 67F (19.5C), set in 2010. The average high for this date is 47F (8C). Today's high, this year, in this town? 72F (22C).

We could have eaten breakfast on the porch. Easily. It just would have felt so strange. So, we eat inside.

I have lots to do inside, but this is not the day for it. Out we go.

We work hard! Rip, clip, weed, mulch, compost. Ed even scrubs down the muddy porch posts. By tomorrow we'll be stuck in below freezing temps. The hose will be shut off for the season. The mower put away until there's something to mow again.

He asks me -- I taught you where to shut off the water, right? 

I answer -- yep, yellow nob in the basement by the old water heater.

We're in the basement now. Which one? 

That. I point to a yellow nob.

Oh boy. 

Good thing it didn't go below freezing while I was away. That one would have flooded the basement. It's this one! He point to an obscure nob that you cant even see and that I would have never in a million years located. 

I plant bulbs in pots to bring inside. I bought some without paying attention to the zone requirements. Lycoris radiata. In consulting with the nursery I decided it's a great experiment! If I succeed they will expand their marketing!

And now we are done. Porch cleared, flower fields winterized, chipped, mostly weeded. Bring on the cold, we are ready!

In the afternoon I pick up Snowdrop. A few more minutes of play in the warm air...

Wit the hose, with a spade, with a hairbrush, with mud...

... then we go inside. For our usual books and games. 

Toward evening, I drop her off at a Thursday activity and swing over to my daughter's for a few minutes of catch up time. 

And the day is not done! Later, Ed and I head out to his friend's -- the sailing guy who had done this trip with him (only it was longer, further and way more congenial) three years ago. Time to sit back over dinner and wine and review all the small bits and pieces of this year's boat adventure. I have learned that sailing people can never have enough of a detailed recount. I'm fine with that. It's as close as I ever want to get to an ocean boat trip. (I should say that I have in fact sailed across the Atlantic. A handful of times. Though in a slightly larger boat. You can read about it in Like a Swallow!)

Night time. I have the feeling of deep contentment that comes from a finished outdoor job and a readiness for what's ahead. With love.

the calm

I needed sleep, Ed needed sleep. We reverted to our old schedule and both woke up satisfied. Well, eventually. Ed is still sleeping as if on boat duty: a few hours here, a few hours there. Awake at night, asleep in the morning. I don't wake him for breakfast. I turn on music, I bake muffins.

Personally I think his Circadian rhythm needs a little fine tuning. There are so few hours of light now and he spends them under a quilt. But, we're talking about a guy who has always loved the darker hours of the day. Perhaps it's a good match to his calm temperament. 

Morning animal duty is fairly straightforward so long as there isn't snow on the ground. Today we're having a burst of warm air and I don't even bother to put on a jacket.

Starting with the weekend, we're going down to the near freezing level and that is slated to stay with us every single day far into the future. It's an early start to winter! I am very glad that all my bulbs are in the ground.

The coming of winter... It happens fast. One day you're wondering if you should b ordering a Thanksgiving turkey and mulling over which size and which complicated potato dish to take on, and the next you're trying on the skates on grandkids and wondering if you still have it in you to skate on very slippery surfaces. 

At noon, I shout up to a still drowsy guy -- I'm going out for a walk. For me, it's now or never.

Wait for me!

I smile at that. However he has strayed from being my occasional traveling companion (remember those days?), he has never backed off from being my every-chance-we-can-get walking companion.

To the park!

(the underbrush is still green...)

And then it's time for me to pick up Snowdrop. A happy girl!

You sometimes take for granted that smile. I hope I never do.

(Definitely the last days of playing with the hose; we both got very wet in the process!)

Evening. Still not done with farmette chores. I sweep the porch roof, Ed mows down the maple leaves so that they mulch rather than kill all that grows in the front yard. I pick up CSA spinach, he's on a work call so I do the night run as well with the cheepers. We eat leftover frittata wedges.

Could an evening be any more beautiful? 

the stories

We stay up most of the night. For once, I was the soothing presence, the listener, the one who would be there close to him as bits and pieces of his "fabulous" (his word) journey spilled out. 

He had pulled in before 10 pm, delayed somewhat because the planes were all overbooked and arguments arose as to who should fly and who should get off. He sat squeezed in, his one pack under the seat in front, but sticking out so his long legs came up high, knees bumping the tray, making it useless for the duration of the flight. No matter. His laptop was destroyed in mid voyage so he had nothing to put on that tray except my book, Like A Swallow, which he read with fascination. You remembered all that stuff! I did. I'm that kind of a person who remembers stories.

At the farmhouse now, he was wound up like I'd never seen before. Explosive laughter, one episode piggybacking onto another, story after story, interrupted only by eating. They had thrown him off the boat in the early morning and he had had no food since the day before. Well, one beer at the airport, purchased by a sympathetic crew member from another boat, now also leaving an island under an impending siege. The hurricane is fast approaching Marsh Harbor were nearly all the boats coming in from the north are anchored.

How had it come to this? 

Ed had posted his willingness to be crew on this year's sail down to the Caribbean (it's an annual event: boats from the northeast coast leave the fast approaching cold and go down to the islands for the winter) and a captain of a catamaran nabbed him. The captain and his wife had one other crew member -- a woman who was very good at sailing and indeed racing tiny sailboats in the Chesapeake. None of them had any sailing experience out at sea.

I think not knowing how to sail in ocean waters is bad enough, but what to me sounded horrendously difficult was the fact that the captain and his screaming wife (yes, she was good at that) did not like advice from one who knew better. Inevitably, following their own convictions would get the boat into trouble and they'd have to come around and do it as he had suggested. This made them more mad. It was an admission of failure.

If you know Ed, you'd perhaps be a little sympathetic here. Put him in the same room (or the same boat) with a person insecure about her/his abilities and things get dicey. He doesn't tiptoe around the truth. If you are a terrible sailor, he'll say as much. And yes, you should not be out at sea, but still, many people do not like being told that they are terrible at something. While you stew and grumble at his bluntness, he will work hard to fix things for you and go the extra mile to make it all work out in the end. But you remain bitter and resentful and determined never to ask him for advice again. Until your next failure.

This particular captain and especially the wife who was the real captain on board, if you bestowed such a rank to the one who screams the loudest, did not want to hear that their blundering attempts, at one point causing the boat to go round in circles against crashing waves, were putting everyone in danger. By the time they had anchored, these retired boat owners from Kentucky had had enough of advice, never mind that without that advice they would not have made it to the islands. They'd be spinning around in circles, forced to retreat with too many tangled and broken lines to keep going. (Do you know how to make a knot for cleat? No... Let me show you. No!) No good byes no thank yous. They were done with him.

So why call this a fabulous sail? For so many reasons! -- he tells me. The people were nuts, but the winds were fantastic! And the captain and wife, didn't they bother you? It was like watching a comedy -- an endless source of amusement! Wasn't their incompetence dangerous? He shrugs. In the end, they deferred to him as he fixed things and set the course of the boat and taught these reluctant learners about winds and whitecaps and all those things I haven't a clue about and, it appears, neither did they. 

Sometime in the middle of the night, I turned my head toward the window. Ed had dozed off for just a few minutes and I waited to see if this was a deep sleep. Outside, the moon went from bright and almost full, to darkness. I missed the red glow and occasionally clouds would obstruct the show. Eventually it moved out of my range entirely. Still, I had caught a bit of it -- a total lunar eclipse. Not to be repeated again until 2025.

And in the Caribbean, Hurricane Nicole is approaching Abaco Island, the island Ed had left because the sail was over and there was no reason for him to linger.

Before any sign of day break, Ed is up and out, on his way to the sheep shed where he tries to fix his broken laptop. It's a no go. He'll need a new one. 

I get up, in less of a hurry, tending to the animals, admiring the beautiful light on this cold November day.

We eat breakfast together. The stories are still there. A question will bring out another and another. All without remorse or complaint. All part of the fabulous sail with the monstrously big captain (twice my size! -- Ed tells me) and his thundering wife. 

How can you pick a better boat situation next time? -- I ask. He has an idea: I'll charge for my navigation and sailing skills. He doesn't care about the money, but he tells me that those who hire, will want to learn, want to use the experience of someone who has been out to sea many many times to their advantage. And still, you never know. Friends he made once on the island told him that their crew started with four but one was so hopelessly sea sick that he was useless and in the way and the other drank too much. Only two could be trusted to take turns at the helm.

In the afternoon, Snowdrop is here. Briefly.

Because it's Tuesday and so there is ballet.

And in the evening, despite the fact that it's election night, I want to have a get together, a dinner with his Madison sailing friend and his sailing wife. I don't have much to contribute to such a group, but I love to listen at the side. And this sailing pal and I had kept track of Ed's progress out at sea and he had shared many stories from his voyage with Ed three years ago. 

But Ed holds back. He is now in his farmhouse mode. He wants to share stories, yes he does, very much so, endlessly even, but ... couldn't we just do it on Zoom? You know, there's still Covid to consider...

We stay home, I bake a frittata. The hens are still laying and I have the eggs and fresh CSA spinach and locally farmed oyster mushrooms. And our chocolates.

with so much love...