Born February 16th, with a black grease mop parted to perfection, at a rotund and gluttonous 10 lbs 3 oz, it was immediately apparent that Saparmurayat Niyazov had reentered the world in the form of our daughter. Though we were defiant in our assuredness that our nurturing could undo nature and deter the little bundle from despotism, we nonetheless relented to nature a bit and declared her, and her birth month formerly referred to as February: May. There was also a pleasant alphabetic economy to it considering her mother is Amy. Might as well ration now as I could see by the glint in her eye that she would soon make illegal all excess letters and numbers.
The air will be full of soft enveloping salt and fat. Whole milk will work over hard flakes. Heat will emanate in rough rectangles out of the toaster. Invisible towers of condensation will obscure the window while I stand and wait. Out there, I will see bittersweet branches brought low by precarious piles of snow. Blue jays will bloat against the smoldering cold. Birds yesterday flew wildly against the choke of vines and berries. Birds today big and blue and still. Birds tomorrow torn apart by three black cats. Their transparent temperament tells the temperature. There is a frozen city for no man. Here is the heat of deceivers and the light of self-deception. I peanut butter toast.
This year was especially accommodating for the annual tree gathering adventure due to copious amounts of snow. Even the sign that reminds us where to turn was buried in snow, which caused us to drive an extra 30 miles in the wrong direction (every turn looking more like the last). But, no matter, we eventually got there and bagged a beautiful tree. It helped that it was completely covered in snow so we couldn’t see what it really looked like until we got it home. There, it turned out strangely symmetrical.
Without fail, this is where you will find us eating an everything bagel with chili garlic (Jacob), a plain with Mert’s pimento cheese (Amy) and a plain with house smoked salmon (Rosa).
Though the spirits have been good all around of late (owing to my new job, which makes me less of an asshole), the bodies have not.
We bought our biennial subscription to cable (hello Time Warner, fuck you I hate you) at the Cumberland County Fair. Who doesn’t buy their cable at the fair? This year it was $39.95 for a year of digital cable. Not as good as the $29.99 I got for basic cable two years ago, but better nonetheless than the $57.95 that they normally charge for garbage television. It’s a racket, we know it, paying anything for commercial television. But it’s better than ritualistic suicide or violent hard drinking, both things that come to mind on dark, raw February nights. So, we indulge ourselves as winter comes.