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.

Post Penumbral

 We missed - narrowly, though - a penumbral eclipse for the moon yesterday morning. It began about 7:30 am and by then the moon was setting. Those who live west of here, across the western reaches of the US, had a chance to see some of the eclipse, at least.

 So, having no chance at all, I thought I'd watch the moon rise around, see if any of its glory was wiped by shadow. And when the moon rose I was standing in corn stubble, coat pulled about my neck, stars beginning to show overhead.

 Here's a wide view as the moon rose above Pinehaven. The tree just to the right of the moon is the maple beside our kitchen. Pinehaven itself stands nestled in the dark just right of center.

 Walking to the south lawn, Dayton glows to our northeast (left) and a cell phone tower, almost due east of the house, blinks red. It is less than a mile away and often blinks with a blinding white light, perhaps some sort of alarm. Centered in the picture and nestled in the treeline, are several of Dayton's TV stations.
 But overhead is the full moon (actually half a day past full). To its left is Jupiter which seems to have been dragged into the sky by our moon.

 Here's a closer view of the moon and Jupiter, so close they're nearly touching. When I went to bed, the moon was still in the eastern sky and a shaft of golden moonbeams sliced across my bed, head to foot. It was almost too bright to sleep, as though a giant searchlight was shining directly upon me.

 Here's a wider view to Pinehaven's east. As I stood there, the air temperature dropped slowly. It was in the upper 30's when I walked outside and had neared freezing by the time I stepped back indoors.
 And yet, cold as it was, a fall night is a lovely time to walk across the fields, harvested and bare, stepping across the corn stubble with the stars shining overhead. That's when it feels as though we're riding a spaceship (which we are) bound for some novel celestial port. I'm pleased that I can peer through this clear window, marveling at the view, as planets and stars and satellites pass steadily across my view.

Thanksgiving - 2012

 Our Thanksgiving this year was especially nice because we had the chance to share it with others. It used to be just Dad, Mom and I. When Dad died last year, it turned into just a two person meal. Even so, Mom went out of her way to make it special, to have food we usually don't have and to have it in impressive quantities for just the two of us.

 This year was different, Doug and Annette Boyer invited us to their house in Miamisburg. Doug is my cousin. Here's a look at our day ...

Mae and Hadley

Sue and Katie

Sue and Hadley

Mom

Edie

Gary

Charlie

Annette and Doug

A few views of the incredible table.

Doug cuts the pies

Mom and Mae

Mel and Bentley

Katie and Hadley

Mom and I

 Great food, great company, great family ... what could be better for Thanksgiving? This is one we'll remember.

Dad's Duck

 Every family has something of this sort, some object with no value whatsoever but for its sentimentality. And yet it's the type of thing you keep forever, one of the most important objects you own.

 In our case, it's Dad's duck.

 Back when he was born in 1924, I can imagine my grandmother buying this little plastic object. It was wingless but for paint but now, 88 years later, it's still got two legs, held to the body by thin strings. It doesn't sit there on a flat bottom but wobbles on a rounded one. The bill is long gone. A piece of tape covers a crack on its left foot. I wouldn't know it was a duck but for the tiny tail. Was it meant to be used in a bathtub?

 And yet through the years, the plastic duck somehow took on the unlikely tradition of Christmas tree ornament. Each year, the duck would go into the branches of my grandparent's tree and then, when Dad married, it followed him along to his new household.

 When I first saw the duck, it was probably for my first Christmas in 1949. I'm sure I didn't think much of it. For its decorating value, I still don't.

 But every year, when we decorate our Christmas tree, the very first ornament I think of is Dad's duck. It looks sad, all worn out and falling apart as it is, and yet it is the most important ornament we have. We have nothing we hold in higher esteem than this dilapidated piece of plastic.

 In two days, Dad will have been gone for a year and a half. So the ornament now serves as an important link to him. I'd forget decorating for Christmas if it were left up to me. But this morning Mom opened the trunk and began pulling all the decorations out. She can't let it be. She has to decorate for Christmas.

 All I really cared about was Dad's duck. I placed it carefully at the base of the tree (we used to use it at the very peak of our real trees). It wouldn't seem like Christmas without it.

 And without Dad, it still won't.