Downstairs the dishwasher is peacefully churning soapy water among the soiled plates, the washing machine is thumping a clot of towels, the refrigerator is cooling the eggs my hens have laid, and in the cellar my canned tomatoes show every sign of holding out till spring. It is a housewife's dream.
I might even plant some onion seeds this weekend. That's how blue this sky is, and how not blue it is making me feel. First, however, there is that shoveling chore to conquer and a co-shoveling chore-boy to rouse from his squalor of blankets. And first, I have to share these lines from Woolf's The Years, which are the kinds of lines that I have spent my whole life trying to write.
The cold winter's night was almost black. It was like looking into the hollow of a dark-blue stone.
Dinner tonight: A romantic two-person meal: bacon from a Harmony pig alongside scrambled eggs from my own noisy hens. Consumed while sitting on the couch watching a hockey game with a 13-year-old boy. He'll probably suggest an old Star Trek episode for dessert.