Waiting for Spring

I enjoy this time, the house is quiet and the only noises you hear are the ticking of the wall clock; soft pad of animal feet. Much more pleasant in the summer when the sky is the soft blur of the painters palette. The air is soft, the birds singing and the day holds such promise. Heat, and sun, clothes flapping on the line.

I go out and pick black raspberries for jelly, give the struggling peach trees the eyeball and view with delight the beautiful golden orb spider that made her home there. Gently touch the concord vines bearing their green fruit to turn dusky purple in the autumn.

If I've a garden, I despair of the weeds trying to take a foothold, walk amongst the rows and see what's ready to take. Green beans, tomatoes fresh from the vine, peppers coming later, peas already gone and frozen. I've always loved being outdoors, playing in the dirt.

When all is ready it's a race against the clock putting things up for winter. Jams, jellies, pickles of all sorts, blanching and shocking, simmering and carefully watching. Garden run off from others, so zucchinis to grate, melon to chunk and freeze, squashes to simmer down and mash. Fruit butters to slowly cook, each bubble gently bursting in the pot releasing the fragrance of fruit, deep spice, sweetness.

Food is such a tactile thing. Intimate, warm with memory. A new delight to be entered or something found to be avoided. A sensuous journey at times over palate and tongue. Cooking for those you care about is a joy to me. I am putting into motion what my Grandmother and countless others have done. To instill in ones descendants and loved ones a good feeling when a dish is made, a wistful moment for how another is finished. I miss my Gran terribly, she was the anchor of her home, the keeper of her hearth and the master of it. She was the joy and light and the safe haven for her children and grandchildren.

I have yet to duplicate her pie crust. They were sin.

I so long for spring, want to see and smell the hyacinth, crocus and later the lilacs in the yard. Discover a new robins egg shell, feel the earth underfoot and breath in the sweet breezes. Watch the children laugh and play, lightly run my hand over the soft grasses and feel the rough bark of the trees. Watch the dog do puppy tricks to delight, running my hands deep into his coat and know that he loves and protects me without question. The cats on the hunt for the elusive squirrel. Bluejays piercing the air with the

their territorial cry.

I'm quite tired of winter, lovely though he is, the Old Man. Scenery to stop ones heart, the sun hitting ice covered trees or setting the ground all a glitter. But I'm weary of it, of the gray days and cold. The draft that sneaks into your joints and instead of the marvelous tissue that keeps you moving you find ground glass inserted there instead. The ache that goes bone deep and sometimes nothing seems to shake it loose.

So patiently, I wait.