Yours truly has not had time to bake.
Today it snowed. Our first snow of the season. After photographing the backyard oak and apple branches dusted in sugary white like some fairy confection I thought of James Taylor’s line in Sweet Baby James. The Berkshires seemed dream-like on account of that frosting. And I decided to bake a cake. With cinnamon.
I tried to whistle my way back to the house, to pierce the soft silence that only snowfall can bring, but I am not gifted in whistling.
A crow swung low overhead and cawed, unimpressed with my feeble tune.