A day like, and unlike, all the others.
On Saturday we boiled the chicken and picked its bones clean. On Sunday we simmered stock, then tended a bubbling soup spread across two big pots for the week ahead, a little minestrone-esque deal eventually packed into traveling pint jars for some, left in the soup pot for others. The baby won't eat soup; the baby ate this soup (as did we all). In terms of life's simple comforts, is there anything nicer than hot homemade lunch in January?
On Saturday the rain came, taking the snow and any hint of winter with it. Early Sunday morning it felt and looked like spring. I know it isn't, even more so I hope it isn't. Perhaps this is just the annual January thaw, though without having really descended into winter yet it's hard to tell if it's that or just another day in a string of unseasonably warm days.
Yesterday the kids helped me drag pruned branches from the apple trees down into the field to be further dealt with. We slipped on ice under a bright blue sky. It was warm enough to work without a jacket once we got moving. There's much to be done, always. Some days it gives me purpose and something to focus on in an overwhelming world, other days it's utterly paralyzing. Gratefully yesterday was of the former variety- all fresh air and hope for things to come.
