My favorite parts of all the Little House books were always the parts that just described how they lived. How Laura's mom would make the butter and press it into the butter mold (the two strawberries and a leaf), how Pa would slaughter the pig, and they would cure it for the winter months. The description of all the herbs and onions and barrels of salted pork in the attic.
Growing up in Southern California, where it was usually too warm for a fire on Christmas Eve, you can't imagine how I envied that life that seemed so snug and cozy and ideal.
Real winter, the one I'm living in, feels a little less snug.
Maybe it's my lack of an attic filled with aromatics. Maybe I'm not eating enough pork. I don't know.
I mean, it can be lovely. Like the park right after storm, when the snow is boot deep and soft when you fall into it to make snow angels. And the world is quiet quiet and within the ring of trees you can only hear the cross-country skiers shushing past you. And when the kids sled down the hill and all the colors against the white of the long meadow look like a postcard.
I mean, it has its moments.