The hearth

Baking potatoes in the oven. Baking apple butter muffins. Drinking anise star tea. Dreaming of a country home, a mile long driveway, a wood stove to roast a proper chicken. A shed to throw pots, craft curvy pitchers. Make my own kiln.

Writing a paper on Medea. Not the Euripides play, Medea, who chops up her children (she was under diresss), rather the Medeia from The Argonautika. A softer perspective, a mistaken young girl unfairly put under a love spell so that gods Hera and Athena could manipulate the fate of their beloved Jason.

Soon it will snow. Soon the air will fill with fresh opportunity.

I will be baking bread, gingerbread cookies.