I feel like a Paul Revere rider, with my boots to my knees and woolen coat draping below, except my shout is “One foot might land, Two it could be!” But it’s not the depth of snow so much as the plunging temperature. The wind chill factor drops us to below thirty below. Frigid, rigid and frosty. The deep freeze. The irony is that the sun smiles bright and cheery. It’s a beautiful day, just not a warm one. Looks charming; ‘tis disarming.
Our old farm house is cold. Subzero temps inebriate it, making everyone inside drowsy and slow. Biting breezes stream through seams of doors and windows. Outside the gusty winds blast snow in disarray, stifling traffic and silencing all sound but its own. Tis the season of drafts and drifts.
You have to live in the north to understand what blizzardy weather means, because, depending on one’s situation, there can be an upside, namely, days of having to go nowhere, and of spending daylight hours, legitimately garbed in woolen socks and flannel jammies, wrapped up in fleece blankets and good books.
How will I celebrate the chilly evening? With a warm mug of mulled wine, but my recipe is rather impromptu because I’m not going out for the perfect ingredients. In my kitchen, there are no cinnamon sticks, whole cloves or fresh ginger root. For my on-the-spot mull mix, I line a tea ball with cheese cloth and sprinkle in about a quarter teaspoon of ground cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger and cloves. Too add some heat, a dozen black peppercorns are dropped into the red wine on hand. A ladle of honey and a sliced orange add a splash of summertime. Bring it to a simmer and serve warm. It’s the perfect complement to a snow covered book, Kristen Lavransdatter, the girl of Norway.
The first time I read Sigrid Undset’s classic was years ago. A priest friend of mine, a man who loved literature, suggested the trilogy. He told me that while he was studying at the NAC in Rome, he had asked an aged, wizened librarian, for a great classic. The old man shuffled to the shelves and handed him Kristen’s story.
The next time I spoke with my priest friend, he asked if I had a chance to read the trilogy. He sounded shocked when I told him that I read it in entirety during Christmas break. “What!” he exclaimed, “How did you manage that?” I’m sure he was remembering his last visit to my house, seven kids, my own mini nation, loud, rowdy and rebellious. “Well,” I said, “we haven’t eaten for a week.” I think he thought I was being funny. Why feed when you can read?
As soon as the weather breaks into a balmy ten degrees above, I’ll dig out my cross country skis and slide through the white powdered fields, imagining medieval, snow covered Norway. In the meantime, I’ll sip warm wine and chill with Kristen. She understands chill.
