The thing about January is, it gives you time to think.

The sweet solitude of a fresh snow has fallen on us. I walk through the powder, an excited puppy leaping about my ankles, and I’m held by the quiet, by the calm, by the pause.

I sliced the packing tape along the joins of the box flaps and opened them wide, picked up the thoughtful card resting at the top, thanking me for my order.

I love how fall lets you start again. Start baking bread, start making soup. Start a new knitting project. Start what feels like a slower pace, an amble toward hibernation.

In early morning, I pull the summer’s weeds while redirecting a particularly bitey puppy.

I cracked an orange-yolked egg from the neighbor hens into the bowl of the food processor, added some light olive oil, pink salt, and mustard powder, put the lid on and gave it a quick pulsing blitz.