Snowflakes falling like feathers today while I read about food and food writing. The dog and I went for a walk in the woods and the snow-feathers fell on our eyelashes.
Husband John skyped from Trinidad: “It’s hot here. And they’re getting ready for carnival.” Daughter Anna emailed from Berlin: “I went to a Sunday Market at Mauer Park today. Lots of really cool stuff. I’ll tell you all about everything tomorrow. I’m so jetlagged right now, it’s unreal.” Daughter Laura in Boston texted a response to my question “how are you today?” that she is “muy bien.”
I needed milk and coffee and bread. I bought a rotisserie chicken at the grocery store too. Dinner for one, plus leftovers, plus maybe a taste for the cat and dog. When you’re hungry, a roasted chicken is one of the most delicious smells.
Only three eggs from my five laying chickens today, the winter slackers. I treated them anyway to some of my breakfast cantaloupe and the bottom of a bag of stale popcorn.
Yesterday the groundhog said “early spring.” But I said “patience, we are astronomically only halfway through winter and spring drags her feet here in the Seacoast anyway.” Did you know you can eat groundhogs?
Last night I finished and sent my first assignment for my Food Writing class, a pitch. By the time I was finished, I had worked myself up to a state of nostalgia and craving for the best creamy clam chowders, baked oysters, garlicky steamed mussels, and lobster pies I have tasted. I hoped the magazine editor would buy my piece on classic New England seafood dishes that make great winter comfort food, even though it was make believe.
“If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world.”
― J.R.R. Tolkien