Snow is just a thing that happens in my life now. Like being kicked from the inside by a tiny person who is 14 or so weeks away from emerging into the world. How far away from home.
Growing up in Nashville, snow was always a miracle, a blessed event that meant waking up early to watch the news or listen to the radio (because I somehow had the good fortune of being a child without the internet) to see which counties would cancel school, and then a day in pajamas with pancakes and hot chocolate and frolicking outside in whatever strange snow-worthy clothes we managed to find.
It’s snowing now. I’ve been listening to Iris DeMent’s gorgeous album Sing the Delta for the past few hours. I feel homesick for the south. John literally brought home bacon, and a ham hock, from The Piggery this afternoon. And a cow’s heart, which the butcher threw in for free, and which I have no earthly idea how to cook. John had gone in for liverwurst, telling them that his wife was pregnant, and the girl behind the counter agreed enthusiastically that liverwurst was a good source of iron. I think that’s why he got the cow’s heart, because they were out of liverwurst.
I have a pot of black beans simmering on the stove and a little stack of corn tortillas to eat them with for dinner. And even though snow just happens in Ithaca like any normal thing, it still seems like a miracle to me, like manna.