...the weather outside is frightful....
(As though there were weather inside which might be better.)
The frozen ground is somehow harder than the concrete walk that runs beside it.
I expose as much of me as I dare to the elements, trying to inure myself against the coming months.
It probably was not my best thinking, washing my hair this morning when I knew I was going out, not knowing where (if) I have a blowdryer, which I hate and refuse to use anyway.
It's warm here in Red Emma's, and there's a jazz trio playing. A woman with adorable punkrock hair sits nearby coaxing a tiny kitten to drink frothy milk from a tinier cup. I'm drinking something called a Molotov. It's a shot of espresso in a mug of dark roast coffee, and life is good. Good, with a capital G and more than one o, Gooooood.
(Let It Snow; Jule Styne and Sammy Cahn )
4 comments:
I can almost that coffee.
I meant to say SMELL... smell the coffee... sigh.
When I went back to college in my 30s, one of the things that I did once in a while on a cold, rainy grey afternoon was go into the Mexican restaurant on the edge of campus and get some nachos and a Negra Modelo, and watch the cold wetness outside while eating warm food inside. It was the knowledge of how nasty it was outside that made the food taste so wonderful.
And now? On a cold blustery weekend I find that there is nothing more satisfying than a pot of gumbo and a Saranac Amber.
Richard Adams once wrote that when some humans say they like winter, what they really mean is that they like being in out of it.
I like coffee in most any weather, but in winter it's particularly satisfying
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