Come December 1st, there is a great unleashing that happens in this house. As the solemn, chilly solstice nears, and the days grow muted and bleak, we shift into winter gear. Several things happen simultaneously.
Candles appear on every surface. Their quivering, fickle flames are my attempts to create small suns to replace the deeply felt absence of their somnolent ancestor. Tiny altars illumine with twinkling incandescence. Most folks walk into the house and hope they’ve not entered a family coven.
Woolly sweaters pile up on the backs of chairs and mound in hairy clumps on the counter tops. I find myself repeatedly doing double takes thinking the livestock and woodland animals have mistakenly gained access to the living room and kitchen.
Celtic harps, penny whistles and sleigh-belled songs slither through each room—substitutes for the vanished, chattering birdsong. The dog is particularly fond of fourteenth century a cappella French motets. I know this by evidence of the number of deep barrel-chested sighs he emits while snoozing through each piece, content to such a degree that mere words will not suffice. Or perhaps this is his way of communicating to me that he’s tired of us acting like we’re living in a monastery and can you shut the damn thing off so I can get some shuteye? Maybe.
And speaking of animals, all of mine have responded to the grip of winter. The indoor ones twist themselves into tight, little knots of flesh and fur, noses tucked beneath the surface of nippy air or possibly removed from the bombardment of heavily scented candles mimicking balsam and clove and wood smoke. To them it’s likely an assault. The outdoor brood, the mammoth wool balls in the meadow, battle the frost fettered days with frenzied feasting. Rip, munch, chew, swallow. Shift to the left. Rinse and repeat ad nauseam.
I’ve asked myself if I’d be willing to be terminally cold if it meant I could constantly graze on food. I’ve answered myself with a qualifying question, We are just speaking hypothetically, right? Turns out I’d try anything theoretically, but draw the line at sensory.
The slow-cooking Crockpot is belching heat, steam—and occasionally when I forget enough broth—plumes of black smoke as it chugs along, working a full day of magic on raw ingredients. It releases an almighty “tadah!” when I remove the lid to reveal the results of the bewitching black arts it’s been known to use. I sold my soul to the devil when I purchased that cauldron. I bow down to it repeatedly and grow fat on its spellbinding triumphs.
There is a hazy fog that settles over the kitchen from where the tea kettle, the stove or the faucet dispenser musters up bucket after bucket full of boiling water to fill mug after mug of tea, hot chocolate and mulled cider. The potions fill the air with a heady scent, but the dog complains the humidity wreaks havoc with his poodle ancestral hair. I tell him either I’ll ditch the Gregorian chants or pamper his pompadour, but not both. He moves outside and solves both his gripes.
And lastly, I’m left with an insatiable desire to unearth the words of those, who although silent in their graves, still move with great effect through their eternal works of pen and paper. Poems, essays and long told tales keep me agreeably disposed, passing the hardened air hours until the return of the sun and all it promises.
So through this dove gray December, I leave you with a verse to recall or read for the first time. Bundle up, fatten up and chin up. Let’s welcome winter.
Robert Louis Stevenson (from A Child’s Garden of Verses, 1885)
Late lies the wintry sun a-bed,
Before the stars have left the skies,
Close by the jolly fire I sit
When to go out, my nurse doth wrap
Black are my steps on silver sod;
Don’t forget to check out what’s cookin’ in the Scullery this week (here) and what we’re all talkin’ about down in the pub (here)!
2 thoughts on “Untying the bow that holds December bound.”
What deliciously wondrous wrote words to awake with on this foggy, wet and cold Sunday morning. I can nearly smell and taste the air in your house. I can even imagine the scent of wet dog after returning from the nap he took out doors.
We, at our abode have not of yet reached the ability in family and childhood development to be able to offer lit scented candles; spiced pumpkin & roasted pecan chocolate pie, fresh baked vanilla and lavender bread, toasted mulled oats with sprits of chi. No, with three beautiful, intelligent, hyper-active scheming little girls terrorizing their parents and raising our blood pressure to new heights, any open flame in our house would call for the local social worker to pay a visit and consider our options of visitation rights. Instead, to meet that rite of passage, we must simply cook, roast, stew, braise or take physical act for the full days wage to qualify the scents of the relaxing feast. Mind you, we do cherish the end results for an early dinner and weeks worth of left overs.
To put it simply, as we have reached December, where in most homesteads turn on the heater or stuff the fireplace to warm their cold bones, we, need only rely (typically on weekends, beginning at 4am), on our rambunctious daughters to run madly throughout the house and create enough friction (heat) forcing us to either open the windows for a little cool air or ask them to run laps around the house; melting the snow. Either way, it has saved money.
My best regards to you and yours, 🙂
You live life with total authenticity. I think most folks would vote for the real deal rather than fabricated copies. Still … all those scented candles throwing out the aromas of baked goods have saved me a good few calories. I’m a little grateful. You still get to burn yours off with the chase and catch routine. Enjoy the moments!