Good car news: only the battery! . . . an instant fix, a small bill, and Tina the Subaru is back to business again--although Paul opines melodramatically that she has contracted Carvid-19 and may end up on a ventilator.

It is cold here: 17 degrees now; yesterday a high of windy 30. My neighbor and I went for a long blustery walk on the trails, and hardly anyone else was outside, despite the bright sun. I came home red-faced and hungry, happy to greet a wood stove and a cheerful son proffering a hot cup of tea. Paul had the day off, so I'd decided to make him one of his favorite meals: baked beans. That was a luxury too--an all-day slow oven, the scent of molasses coiling into the air. The fragrance of a storybook New England winter: wood smoke, baked beans, and a sharp wind.

Yesterday I ended up with more dribs and drabs of editing than I expected: as I was telling my neighbor, I'm at the stage with this project of having 10 minutes of work 20 times a day. But this morning I'm editing-free, so I'll be turning my entire attention to sonnets. I'm looking forward to a sweet few hours.

Otherwise, I don't know what I'll be up to. Yesterday I put in a big curbside order at the wholesale warehouse. Early in the pandemic, before masks became a thing, I was using this service weekly. Then, what with masks and my garden, I stopped. But the Covid spike and fewer fresh vegetables are pushing me back into the old ways, and I am stocking up on storage vegetables, freezer meats, and pantry supplies. I will still need to venture out for perishables, but my goal is fewer and faster grocery trips.

Here's a picture of my bean pot. About 50 years ago my mother bought the old girl for pennies at a church rummage sale in Rhode Island. When I was a kid, she was our cookie jar, but then, at some point in my early housekeeping years, my mother gave the pot to me. I assigned her to her old job, and she has been faithful.