The Gray Season

Only November and we have snow.  And gray skies.  “Tis the season, here in Washington.  For much of the fall we had the ever-changing weather I usually associate with March, weather like a square dance, sun do-si-do-ing with rain clouds, and plenty of blue breaks in between.  I don’t mind those conditions at all.  Wind and pelting rain cut by a surge of heat to dry the pavement.  It energizes me.  Keeps me out-of-doors and in the garden and inspires brisk walks with the dogs.  But the gray, oh how I lament the settling in of the gray season, as heavy as an old hen sitting her last clutch of eggs.

In the too-early twilight yesterday, I liberated the last of the chard from shivering slugs and the leading edge of snowfall.  This morning the garden is a pan of snow with feathers of fennel and parsley poking through in protest.  I’ll be doing nothing much out there for a while, although Mom’s chickens have put in a request for greens–in any condition–so once the snow melts, I should suffer the mud and clean things out.  Take the time to add some compost and manure to the soil so the beds can digest in the chill of the winter.  Be a good steward of the soil, even though I’d rather draw into a fetal position in front of the fire for the next three months.

The gray season weighs on me, makes me tip the bottle for one glass more, seeking the lightness that comes of the wine.  My waistline expands, too, mysteriously.  Day-long dimness chases me to the cookbooks for comfort and our table finds itself entertaining all things unctuous–braised shanks, bacon-based anything, beans and greens, and cheese in generous applications.  Tom, joking, thanks me for keeping him warm by adding a layer of fat to his ribs.  At this we laugh merrily, and reach for upside-down pear gingerbread.  With whipping cream. 

The good of the gray is that I return to writing and reading with both eyes, rather than having one attached to a clock or the seducing sun.  There’s no squandering of outside time.  It’s closed for business, for the most part.  Read, write, reflect, listen to Madeline Peyroux…and cook…is how I spend the gray season.

Have a blessed Thanksgiving with those you love.