A Winter Break

 It is still cold. Wednesday morning dipped to 10°. Thursday morning dropped to 4°. And yet there is a softness to the air just now, a sort of winter's rest, where the wind quits blowing, the sun shines a little more each day and the temperature strives to get a little higher before the next bitter night.

 I've noticed, too, that there is more light in the sky each morning when I awake. I am a man of schedules and I rise at the same time every day, spend the same minutes eating breakfast and am standing beside the bathroom window, sawing a toothbrush between my lips at the same instant each day. It is not just the snow on the ground affording extra light. It is that the day is growing longer, the sun is ever inching northward.

 I would not have stepped outside last evening for sunset pictures had the day not been sunny and warmer. Though we only topped at freezing, it was a prelude to today when we managed 40°. I could feel that change coming twelve hours before. I was again in the mood to be out.

 As I rounded the garage, white bathrobe hanging below my coat, I saw the icicles, formed daily on the south edge of the garage roof, tinged with the warm colors of sunset, like frozen rainbows. Had I come by but a few minutes later, the icicles would have been in cold shadow and their appeal would have been less striking.

 Behind me, against the west wall of the house and opposite the bathroom, I piled bales of straw last fall, keeping the coldest wind off the bricks, hoping to save the plumbing. Above, another ice dam drips through the day and refreezes each evening encasing the straw in strips of ice, like a prison window. It is doing its job in protecting the pipes, ice itself protecting against ice.

 A few moments more and the sky begins to darken, the January sun feeble and able to offer no heat unless overhead. It is a cold, stark scene. The fields laid out in white, sleeping beneath this crisp unwrinkled sheet for more than a week.

 The scene alone beckons me to stay, to watch the sun dip beneath the distant trees. Though there is no wind, I give a sudden shudder, more from anticipation of the cold than the actual temperature. A January night falls quickly once it begins.

Don't 'Blow' That Bread

 We've noticed for some time now that many of the loaves of bread we make in our automatic breadmaker have their beautiful tops collapsed while they bake. To combat the problem - thinking the breadmaker itself was at fault - we set the machine to make the dough only and we removed it, kneaded it manually, folded it into a conventional oven pan, let it rise again and baked it normally.

 Trouble is, the top still collapsed.

 We first noticed this with a lovely herb bread, a concoction of chives and cottage cheese. It seemed to produce a beautiful loaf when we tried it years ago. But most recently, the loaf collapsed about 2" when it was baked. It didn't matter whether we let the breadmaker finish the loaf or took it out and baked it in our regular oven.

Now I love a yeasty loaf, light and airy and filled with  the mustiness that yeast gives. I suppose I like it too much, We've found that was the problem, being a little too liberal with the active dry yeast.

The recipe for our one pound loaf calls for 1-1/2 teaspoons of active dry yeast. I did a little research and found when others had this problem with a collapsing loaf, they cut back on the yeast by about 1/3 and the problem was solved.

That's it! I used an even teaspoon this time and the loaf returned to its beautiful rounded shape. If the top isn't mushroomed, it just isn't right. Every one of our last half dozen loafs had collapsed to varying degrees. This one is perfect again.

Who'd have thought the remedy would be so simple? I was adding a little extra yeast, thinking that it was just more of a good thing, a little flavor boost. But it causes the dough to stretch, to inflate beyond normal (and it looks beautiful during this phase!) but once the heat is applied, all that extra volume disappears.

So, lesson learned. Watch the amount of yeast you use. If anything, go a little light. Who's going to complain about using less? The end result is more bread.

The Slow Turn

 I am in bed, sound sleep, while this planet turns slowly. It scrolls slowly to me, appropriately at the head of my bed, lifting Orion from the eastern horizon, then a last quarter moon and finally, after I am awake again, the sun. This gentle slide is imperceptible: if I watch the stars seem stationery. But it is bring to me a quarter degree of sky every minute, 15° each hour, and so the view is renewed constantly.The sky, this very world, is changing by the minute.

 When I carry the trash out at 7:45 am, that half a moon hangs now in the southwest, still high in the sky so that I must look upwards to see it. The sky is still dark, the moon a brilliant white. I separate the trash from the recyclables, carry compost to the garden, my feet crunching on re-frozen snow that crusted on this cold night. It is 4°.

 Later, when I am back inside and have warmed, Mom calls me to the kitchen window. The sun has risen but it is still low and shadows of the trees cut across the snowy lawn like black knives. Owing to the low angle, the snow comes into high relief, small pockets thrust down deep, dimples that seemed not there when the sun was high yesterday.

 The sky is reflected blue in the snow, the sun not high enough to cast a golden light. It is still at the edge of night as the sun casts its first light across our north lawn.

Walking to the south living room window, I see already a warmer scene. Colors begin to appear. At the right of this scene our metal well-head pushes through the snow, already sunk from 7" to a mere 3". School is still out for the holiday so there is little traffic. Those who are working have left long ago; those who are not are either in still in bed or, like me, about their early business.

 The planet turns a few more degrees, pulling the sun ever higher in the east. It has already begun its slow move northward, nearly two weeks after the winter solstice, and it is inching slowly higher with each passing day.
 Just risen above the small wooded area on Venus Road, the sun slants shadows low and long. Our mailbox seems twenty feet high. The snow holds a rough texture that will soften as the sun climbs higher.
 Throughout the day the sun will arc across the southern sky. Tomorrow I will find it a few more seconds removed from today's position. It is winter and yet winter is receding behind us. There is hope that spring is just ahead. The promise is written in shadows.

The Canvas

 We have a certain window - the north-facing window in my mother's bedroom - that seems of particular interest to Jack Frost. It's protected from direct sunlight; that's part of the equation, of course. And yet there are other windows on the north of the house (three the same as Mom's and the large bay window in the kitchen) and none of them serve as the same sort of icy canvas.

As I stepped out of the shower this morning and opened the bathroom door, this is the icy scene I saw. Brrr! I later walked to the window and saw the familiar etching: masses of ice crystals blooming here, lines etched at odd angles there. And what is there that causes this molecular pattern to begin? A minuscule bit of dust? A rivulet where a drop of rain fell across the pain? Nucleation, scientists would say, randomness at its best.

 In the background the pines serve to darken the scene and give the ice added life. The snow still lies about three inches deep. But it was last night's 10° low that gave the impetus for the fractal patterns I see here.

 Take a closer look:

 While the window does not seem to leak air - I feel no cold air wafting around its edges - there is moisture in the night air that loves to collect at this spot and to solidify as the temperature drops. At the top of the frame, as you can see, liquid droplets of water lazily collect.

 And while this window always holds the favorite spot for Jack Frost's work, my own bedroom window - the south-facing one, yet - also has some icy structures grown upon it while I slept.

 But the sun is already shining there and the ice will be gone by noon. The other windows in the house are devoid of ice. They show only a hint of fogging at best.

 And so on winter nights, when the air is right, when the moisture fingers itself onto glass and stretches across the pane to wait for sunrise, it is captured there through temperature alone. Quantum physics does the rest: an atom comes to rest here, another forms there, a random cascade begins. Soon fractals are written, curving in among themselves  forever repeating until the structure is large enough for human eyes to see. Atmospheric moisture made visible, as a spring fog is accustomed to do.

 My only job is to arrive at the right time, admire nature's singular artistry, dabbed without brush while I slept.

'Blizzard' of 2012

 It was supposed to be a blizzard ... high winds, heavy snow. It wasn't. At 1 pm I showed 4.5" of snow and the highest wind recorded just five miles away was 23 mph. Hardy a blizzard by any definition. And yet it snowed and for that I'm grateful.

 I had to mail a package early this morning and returning home this is the view I had of S. Clayton Road. There were few cars about and the roads had been little traveled so there were only a few narrow ruts for the tires to fit into.

Arriving home, that's Pinehaven on the left. At this time there was about 2" of snow on the ground.

 Later in the day, the rain/snow gauge seemed half buried. Considering we had no snow last winter - and none so far this year - it was novel seeing the ground white at all.

 The south side of Pinehaven had been blasted by snow. It's a wet, heavy snow and not one that would make good sledding. It doesn't even make for good shoveling ... it sticks to the blade like glue.

 Our woodpile took on a rustic, backwoods appearance by no more than the addition of a meager coat of white.

 By 1 pm, there was 4.5" of snow on the level spots. A blizzard would surely be capable of dropping more than that!

 I went out and got the mail (it was delivered) and found the metal mailbox swung sideways by the plow-thrown snow. I'll have to make a repair when the weather improves. Even with so little snow - and so slight a wind - the snow has begun to drift a little in the driveway. How, though? It's almost too heavy to move with a shovel.

 My weather webcam shows a winter scene, at last!

 Finally, this male downy woodpecker improved upon his time to stock up on fat for the cold nights ahead. It seems brutal to have to peck through ice and snow for a taste of suet and he was complaining mightily ... though it may have been at me watching him.
 So, little snow. Little wind. Little cold. But at least the ground is white and that's novel in itself.

Baking Bread

 As I grow older, I suppose I grow lazier. We have enjoyed the use of a bread maker for many years but it's only recently that we've allowed the bread maker to do all the work, start to finish. That's because I like a traditional horizontal loaf, not the vertical loaf our machine turns out.
 But then, I thought, it's the taste of the final product that counts most. And being able to pour the ingredients into the pan, walk away and come back four hours later to a wonderful loaf of steaming "homemade" bread seems reason enough.

 Does this look other than perfect?
 We modified a basic white loaf and included about 1/4 cup of sunflower seeds to the mix. They add a nice salty crunch to the final product. As I added the regular baker's yeast, I found that I didn't have quite enough. I also had a pack of wine yeast (Montrachet) open in the refrigerator and just topped it off with that. How could it hurt? I suppose all yeast has its own taste but, going on the assumption that "yeast is yeast" I just poured it in and crossed my finger. Perfect!

 Mom also experimented with the baking time. We unplugged the machine five minutes early and cut the +45 minute process by a bit. Mom thinks the crust becomes a little too tough, a little too brown if left in the machine until completion. I don't ... but then I also don't care if it's a little less brown. I don't see that the change made much difference.
 I lifted the hot baking pan out of the machine, dropping a pot holder into the bread maker which immediately began to smolder. Bad idea! I grabbed the nearest knife I could get my hands on and flipped the potholder up and out of the baking area. A few seconds more and it would have burst into flame.
 If there's one thing I don't like about an automatic bread maker it's the mixing tool that extends up into the bottom of the loaf. Separating the loaf from the pan takes some hard raps to get it to come loose. And where the tiny paddle pulls out, there's a hole in the bread.

 The top of the loaf is to the left. Mom uses a paper towel and spreads softened butter across the entire loaf to make the crust more pliable. This certainly adds a nice, rich taste, too.
 The trouble with homemade bread is that it's addictive and lasts such a short time. For the four hours devoted to the project, this is all you get. So as soon as we have one loaf out of the machine, we're thinking about the next. Store-bought bread isn't even a close second to this.
 Mom's already talking about a cherry-infused bread with brown sugar. "Do you think I could use cherry yogurt?" she asked. I don't see why not. So the experiments - with a little help from technology - continue.

Springerle

 I am not one for extravagance but I love to eat and I have an annual craving for Springerle's, an anise-flavored German cookie. Though they are available now and then at Christmas-time at one area bakery, it's a rare treat when we have them.

 This year I ordered a couple of dozen from The Springerle Bakery in Marshall, North Carolina and they are both a treat to see and to eat.

 This tiny cookie, less than two inches in length, is an example of the type included in their dozen. Each is carefully made - a work of art, even - and traditional in every sense of the word. They even use hartshorn (Baker's ammonia) in their recipe, an ingredient that goes back to the earliest days.

 While similar-tasting cookies are available for the holidays, they are usually much larger and not quite of the same taste. When Woody's Market in West Carrollton, Ohio, was still in operation, they had a German baker by the name of Hans. We looked forward to bags of his cookies every Christmas. They were simply exceptional on all counts.

 The Springerle Bakery says of the cookie: "This rare type of cookie began life somewhere in Southern Germany as betrothal tokens, tellers of tales, social commentary, and to celebrate daily life." They say that Springerle molds, which impress the detailed pictures upon the cookies, are known since the Middle Ages.

 All of the great Springerle's I've had through the years share three attributes: that taste of licorice, a hard, crunchy exterior and a soft interior.

 We tried to make these one year. We even ordered hartshorn, determined to use an original recipe and make them with the time-honored ingredients. It is a difficult cookie to make, requiring several days to do properly. And our finished product was not nearly so delicious as what we could buy.

 An anise-flavored sugar cookie will give you the taste, of course, but none of the texture or romance.

 Springerle's are one of the few things in life which can't be hurried or duplicated with modern methods. They belong to the distant past. Thank goodness we can still find them today.