So here is your correspondent in her kitchen, in heaven, as she sometimes is. I am looking out at the snow falling, yes, the snow falling on this cold, cold spring day, while the smell of roasting chickens and vegetables fills the room; my Thursday students, who are like family, are coming for dinner to celebrate the end of our winter term, if not the end of winter. I'm watching the thickly falling snow turn my garden into a Christmas card, I'm smelling the rich plenty of our food, and I'm listening with all my heart to the piano concerto in D minor by the greatest musician who ever lived. A young Quebecois, Alexandre Tharaud at the piano, with Les Violons du Roy. After this I will put on Glenn Gould's first Goldberg Variations, a record that belonged to my parents.
Too much to be grateful for, all at once.
Oh, and about thirty sparrows are clustered at the feeder, I'm wearing a just-bought $9 dress from Doubletake, have just had a snazzy haircut, and am about to pour myself a glass of merlot. Talk about runnething over. It is to weep.
PS. Just got out the flour bin to make gravy - and it's my mother's old flour bin, just arrived from Ottawa - the one that was in the kitchen of my childhood. The first time I've used it in my own. So now I am weeping. I'm always emotional, but this is ridiculous.
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