The wind chill around here lately is making going out difficult. Or maybe it's my lack of proper winter clothing. I did foray out today for an errand or three and suddenly found myself back at home, on the couch, with three books by my side, ensconced under the white wool blanket. Which is where I've been all evening. Until I decided to make bread. Just now my hands smell sweetly of kneaded bread: butter, wheat flour, crushed almonds, shredded Locatelli. The dough is rising on the radiator, tucked under a cotton green-and-white kitchen towel. It is far past my bedtime. The wind is indeed howling around the eaves, the moon is up, and I sit here pondering the elasticity of bread dough, and of time. I had so many plans today, but it just didn't happen that way. What happened was books and bread, and that, I suppose, is okay with me.