Ice, Snow, Cake, and a Love Poem
Midnight. Though Edward is inside now, worn out from playing out in the eerie light of a frosted white world, Apple remains mesmerized by the sizzling sound of ice as it needles down through the naked trees. She stands, silent and still, at the far edge of the garden, her black form against the white like a small hole punched into a blank canvas. She holds her face up, listening, catching the ice in her fur then, without a second look, she bolts for the warmth of the house.
We watched nervously as ice fell most of the following morning, as worried weathermen polished up rarely used words such as “catastrophic” and “historic”; as cardinals and finches, their feathers puffed three times their size, gathered on bare branches to wait their turn at the over-crowded feeders. Falling trees knocked out power all around us, but by some fortunate quirk of fate, our little forest remained tall and sturdy; our lights never wavered. And just as the weak, watery sun admitted defeat and slipped below the grey horizon, snow began to fall. Fat wet cotton balls of snow, sleepy, silent snow, blanketing the sharp personality of the ice and sending us four off to bed.
Two full days of hibernation when even we rebels obeyed the official warnings to “stay off the roads”. Two full days when the fire roared in the fireplace as The Songwriter flipped pancakes and Edward snuggled next to me in the fat red chair, my book resting atop his furry back, his big dozing head in my lap. I can think of many worse ways to spend a couple of days.
Because of this change in our schedule I was unable to make it to the little chocolatier I normally visit this week in February to purchase The Songwriter’s favourite chocolate cremes for Valentine’s Day. What to do? What to do?
An utterly delicious chocolate cake with a Valentine’s surprise in the center.
So much fun to make, and utterly delicious as well.
You must try it!
Find the recipe HERE.
And because it wouldn’t be Valentine’s Day without a love poem....
By Tony Hoagland
She goes out to hang the windchime
in her nightie and her work boots.
It’s six-thirty in the morning
and she’s standing on the plastic ice chest
tiptoe to reach the crossbeam of the porch,
windchime in her left hand,
hammer in her right, the nail
gripped tight between her teeth
but nothing happens next because
she’s trying to figure out
how to switch #1 with #3.
She must have been standing in the kitchen,
coffee in her hand, asleep,
when she heard it—the wind blowing
through the sound the windchime
because it wasn’t there.
No one, including me, especially anymore believes
till death do us part,
but I can see what I would miss in leaving—
the way her ankles go into the work boots
as she stands upon the ice chest;
the problem scrunched into her forehead;
the little kissable mouth
with the nail in it.
Happy Roses Chocolate Kisses Valentine's Day to You All!