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The front porch tomtens of early winter, having been unceremoniously dethroned by a wintry gale, lay in little evergreen heaps where the hollyhocks reach come summer. And with that- the last vestige of yuletide was felled. Frozen potato noses were made offering to the compost pile and knits were shepherded indoors for another time, another season. A stack of easy-to-grab-while-staying-in-your-slippers firewood was laid in their stead. Before collapsing our wintered flesh at the hallowed feet of the wood stove, we gathered eggs for not the first or last time that day. (What a shame for an egg to freeze!) Once returned, a sweet potato chili simmered in two pots on the stove, a hot lunch for the week ahead. And wafting through the house came the reminder- what good fortune it is to be warm and fed on a bitter January day.