Strips of sunlight are filtering through the white pines. Though the thermometer now stands at 28 degrees, I did pick a bouquet of budding daffodils yesterday. I also planted peas, cleaned out my herb garden, and hung a load of laundry on the outside lines. Mid-afternoon, a few peepers croaked plaintively, and I watched a pileated woodpecker sample the telephone pole beside the driveway. The weather was not warm at all, but the animals and I tried to pretend otherwise.
In other household news: because I accidentally followed a recipe for a double crust rather than a single one, I made two pies for dinner. One was a quiche with sauteed grated carrots, garlic, jarlsberg cheese, and freshly cut chives; the other was a galette with a heap of sauteed onions, sliced tomatoes, goat cheese, and the ubiquitous chives. Then I tossed baby kale with olive oil and balsamic vinegar, spread the salad out on the dinner plates, and served slices of pie on top. The texture variations were lovely, and now I am always going to make two pies for dinner.
Today, if it doesn't snow, I plan to dig up a batch of dandelion greens. I haven't yet decided how to serve them, but something will occur to me.
[Sylvia] did not sleep, thinking of the little goat, whose appearance out of the fog seemed to her more and more magical. She wondered if, possibly, Leon [her dead husband, a famous poet] could have had something to do with it. If she was a poet she would write a poem about something like this. But in her experience the subjects that she thought a poet could write about did not appeal to Leon.
--from "Runaway" by Alice Munro