01/27/2026
Day 137:
Here we lay, weather betrayed yet again. Where has the sun gone? And what day is it anyway? The front door remains a snow exhibit. Admission: yet another ounce of patience.
Inside, we pace. We pace and we dream. We dream of… short ribs. Short ribs gently surrendering to the whisper of smoke, giving itself to the delicious promise of croquette-ness, yearning for the lather of remoulade, nay, coulis, no, both.
We argue with ourselves. We argue with ourselves over soup. And it gets personal. Tomato basil? No, french onion. Always french onion. But only either before or after tomato basil. Isn’t it obvious?
We grow delirious. Delirious over the thought of cheese. Mac & cheese, but not the humble sort… the variety enriched with Chablis-laden bechamel so luxurious it requires a moment of silence, possibly even a speech.
Outside: ice. and snow.
Inside: visions.
Sun, whenever you’re ready… we have plans.
- bavette
