I spent all of yesterday morning outside in a cold, bright breeze--digging, ripping out, replanting, edging--and this morning my herb garden looks beautifully ascetic: tight-cornered, grey-brown, with neat sawdust paths and the tonic spikes of chives, scallions, and sorrel. Harsh spring is a favorite season of mine. The weeds lie low; abundance is kept in check. The small splashes of color matter enormously. I cannot tell you how much comfort a single daffodil can offer, on a day of 40-degree wind.

Then I spent the afternoon baking sourdough bread for us, baking gingersnaps for my college boy, baking two kinds of invented quiche for dinner: one with garlic, sorrel, and spinach; the other with bacon, mushrooms, and dandelion greens. It was a way to celebrate the first tiny edibles from my yard.

Today I am back to editing, and perhaps back to working on The Conversation. (Gerard Manley Hopkins and punctuation are next in line.) School vacation was a time-suck, not to mention the Boston anxieties. But on Friday afternoon I sat in a darkened Bangor movie theater watching Jackie Robinson break the baseball color barrier, and, yes, the movie was sentimental. But I tell you: my boy and I were mightily relieved to be there, soaking up the self-evident moral rightness and the excellent costuming. It was a hell of a week.