We seem to be turning a slow corner. Mostly I love the inbetween times. But this year our shift from winter to spring has seemed long. Winter is gone, but spring isn’t quite here yet and so we’re all a bit uncertain. Some mornings there is a light dusting of snow and then come afternoon you are wearing big sunglasses and thinking maybe drinks out on the porch. Patience is called for.
There are already cravings though. They’re different from winter’s, these cravings of spring. Lemons and berries, fluffy things, light. Grapefruit under the broiler with a little brown sugar for a chilly morning but then a pasta with fresh pea pesto for supper. Bare feet, open windows, tea with local honey—I dragged a pile of newspapers from the fireplace closet to the kitchen. This month they can shine some windows instead of kindling fire. Simmering rhubarb. Grape hyacinths and tulips. The hens are laying like crazy so maybe a light eggy quiche for Sunday brunch. I am deeply longing for the scent of grass, the rich loamy smell of dirt, and really the smells of anything on the wind but snow. Bring on the sunny melt. The river opening, the tinkling of birdsong in the mornings. Sunshine spilling across the floor and into the cracks of our old wintry moods.
I can be patient. Anything worthwhile deserves patience. Maybe John and I will trim some hydrangeas this weekend and start the spring clean up. There are visible green shoots in the garden that need talking to. And there’s a new, almost finished, bird’s nest that bears watching.
Come on April
Here’s to a happy spring— yours and mine.