LETTERS HOME

We thawed so in earnest this week that the whole place smelled of dirt and Luella. I ran out to put the sheep in one afternoon and spring had cometh- lest we forget life on the other side of the seasonally imposed tundra. Now we're happily back to bundling and skating and begging more layers onto our child like the good people of winter do. Craig has the impression that January Thaws (capital J, capital T.) are a thing of my own invention but we're working through it: him by taking polls when I'm not around to explain myself, and me by reading articles from the web aloud, emphasizing words like January and thaw.

The friendly debates of Winter People, eh?

I made almond milk today, an act of such sacrilege that you likely don't need to ask if we're milking. (We aren't.) Gus raved as he sipped some straight from the bowl. Five minutes later he confessed that it was all an act to make sure his dad tasted the homemade milk, too. He has hope that he'll like it once it's "refrigerator temperature". Prior to tasting the milk, I watched Gus eat roe straight from the belly of a fish he was cleaning and gutting with Craig. No wincing or hesitation, not even a rinse on the first egg to be honest. His palate, it seems, is as complex as his web of nut milk deception. And as for me, I'll admit to taking comfort in wild-caught, nutrient dense food floating to the top of today's dietary heap.

Worms are coming in a few days, chicks sometime mid February. We're also taking a cow to the butcher for the first time this week. It's a heavy relief, a complicated right choice. I think Gus and I have settled on a Valentine's Day craft to hand out to his mates at school, and I'm watching youtube Tartine bread baking videos with the fury of someone who actually intends to get better at sourdough baking- though, in standing with the past, I make no promises to anyone. All in all, it is winter as usual. We're worried about hay and happy to have a semi clean, fully warm house where we can enjoy each other. Dye baths and stock pots bubble on the stove and there's always a pair of mittens in need of drying out. Speaking of mittens, I have none and have also managed to misplace (hopefully not lost) Craig's. The winter woolen needs don't quit and for that, for the most part, I'm glad.

xx