It was ungodly cold in Michigan this weekend. A high of 14 yesterday. Fourteen. No, I didn’t really mean to type 41. The 1 and the 4 were in the correct locations. 14 degrees. Fahrenheit. I don’t know about you, but in my opinion, 14 is not a temperature. It’s an awkward time in adolescence, yes, but it is not a temperature. It is against everything that is right and holy in my world.
Luckily, to combat this, my office had a chili potluck on Friday, complete with 4 delicious chili concoctions to take the freezing edge off, as well as chips, cheese, cornbread, biscuits–all the necessary accompaniments–cookies and cupcakes. It was delighful. But all too soon it ended and I found myself on my own Saturday morning with the cold wind trying to slide into the creaky doorways of my house. My house is a delight. I enjoy it immensely. After all, we did strive to pick a house that we adored, because I intend to live there until I die and then I’m going to haunt it (although admittedly, indeed, I do plan on retiring someplace warm and sunny, but I still plan on keeping and haunting this house). But some days, the grand old house is a little less grand. Like days where it’s 14 degrees outside. My house is three solid layers of brick wall (so if that big bad wolf ever comes around, I’m golden)…and no insulation. And all wood floors. And single pain, 150 year old windows. It just soaks up the cold like a sponge. With Josh off playing some RPG game with friends, and the dogs out of the house playing at day care (you laugh but it’s the greatest thing in the world if you have a puppy, especially one that weights 95 pounds and is the size of a deer, like our mastiff), I knew that if I followed my instincts and just melted myself into the couch, cloaked in a blanket like a ghost and watched endless hours of the Cooking channel, eventually….wait, why didn’t I do that? That sounds awesome. Continue reading