Wednesday, December 17, 2008
168: Blue Winter
Yesterday's snow seemed unreal: that fluffy sort that blows away in your cupped hands, the kind that sparkles at night, that is kicked up by the snow blower in moments, that belongs in department store windows.
I love this blue of winter.
I'm loving wool blankets.
I'm loving the new cookbook I picked up at work today: Minnesota Homegrown. I started reading the introductory essay by Garrison Keillor as the last few minutes of my shift slipped by and I loved what he said here:
"But the greatest prize is for the boy hoeing the tomatoes who reaches down and rescues one and wipes the dust off and bites into it. That is pure pleasure, a privilege offered to few, and after it, you will never be happy with any tomato you buy in a store. You hold it to your nose and there is no tomatoness there whatsoever. It was bred for shelf life and strip-mined in Mexico, or the Imperial Valley of California, and artificially ripened, and now it has no more tomato essence than your shoe. This is why vinaigrette was invited: to provide some flavor for denatured vegetables."
The bookstore owner's daughter is returning from two years in publishing in New York City; she's looking for some adventures before she applies to the Iowa Writer's Workshop (in nonfiction), and will spend some time working on a nearby organic farm (which, it looks like, might just be next year's best CSA candidate for us) (after, she hopes to go over to China to teach for a year).
I'm loving these small pleasures in life: the box of oranges, the soft touch of bamboo knitting needles, the kiss before sleep and snuggling beneath down comforters, the floury mess on my pizza peel (and loving that book--thank you, Angie!), that fleeting winter light, how I wish I could hold it all in just a little bit longer.
PS: See more of the blue winter photo series here.