We sat in the living room last night and listened to the rafters crack and snap. When I rolled out of our warm bed this morning, Scott informed me that outside it is 29-below. I am grateful not to have to go anywhere, though I’ll fill the feeders for the ravenous chickadees, the grey nuthatch and the woodpeckers as I do each day and I’ll walk at least to the end of the driveway. Last week I saw two bald eagles perched in the trees across the road. They are sighted more often around here than they used to be, but it’s still exciting. And shouldn’t they be long gone down south by now? Maybe these two were on their way.
It’s a good day for baking. Hm. What shall I rustle up? Scott had no requests, so I’ll have to think of something all on my own.
Bagels again? If so, a different recipe. Remember how I burned the bottoms of the last batch when I ignored my handwritten note in the margin about the cooking time being too long or the temperature too high? In my defence, I thought that because we have a different stove the oven temperature might now be correct. But no. The recipe was faulty. The next morning I sliced off the burnt bottoms and we ate the remainders over the following few days. I took the discards out to the oak trees, thinking maybe the magpies would pick at their good sides. But no. That’s saying something, because magpies don’t usually turn up their beaks at anything. I do wonder what on earth they find to eat, being the scavengers they are. Surely there aren’t that many dead animals for them to choose from in order to sustain themselves.