I have turned indoors. It is not the weather that has pushed me to do so, as it is still so unusually mild, but my inner clock that says it is time. I mulched the new forsythia a couple of weeks ago, my last garden chore of the year, getting a close up of its buds full of hope for a spring seemingly so far away. The falling away of daylight hours to the shortest day of the year always seems so quick and conversely the lengthening feels like an eternity. There are still animals to care for, leeks to pull and arugula to pick, eggs to gather and walks to take, but no more garden chores.
I have been pulling from my stores, creating meals in a completely different way than in the fresh abundance of the summer months. Almost everything comes out of the basement, freezer, or a jar. We have lamb chops with jalapeno jelly, baked potatoes and wilted chard, roasted chicken and root vegetables, to my children’s dismay soup and more soup and to their delight applesauce, dilly beans and jam, jam, jam. It is farmhouse fair, warm and comforting. And as I dip into the pantry, I also explore those dark forgotten corners of the house. We have reorganized bookshelves, rearranged furniture (wow, does dust ever accumulate in an old busy house), gotten ridden of toys no longer played with, hung up bittersweet and brought in boughs of pine.
My sewing projects call to me. Stacks of new fabric, old linen and ideas tucked away all summer for this very time. There will be some late nights finishing presents dreamed up months ago. And by the chair near the window sits the steadily growing stack of seed catalogs tempting me to sit and dream. The Christmas cactus nearby is blooming right on queue. I inherited the cactus this spring when my grandmother passed away. It is not the most attractive plant, but the significance lies in its original owner, my great great grandmother, Gla. You can imagine my relief to see its first buds, as I would not like to be the one to put an end to this ancient plant’s life. Now I must get back to work, chicken noodle soup calls.
