I put a handful of rosemary in the bread today, and now the kitchen smells like heaven. There was an artisan bread shop not too far from my house growing up (bearing in mind that ‘not too far’ means something different in rural Maine than in Edinburgh!) that makes the most delicious rosemary bread. I haven’t cut into it yet, but I can tell you, this smells like that tasted. The smell alone is enough to carry me home.
It is a fact universally acknowledged, at least by those for whose marriageable daughters provision has already been made, that one’s outlook is always gloomier when possessed of insufficient warmth. Hence the liberal application, despite the fast-increasing hours of daylight, of polar fleece, wool tartan, and steaming peppermint tea. Thus bolstered, I find my dependency on the constant presence of my husband during the dark hours somewhat diminished from what it was a quarter of an hour previous. And I haven’t even broken out the libations yet.