The snow falls,
the ground murmurs,
the baby’s loud
and the oven hits a cruising temperature of 400 degrees. The gas burners ignite.
He sears on snow days. Every surface hosts a piece of meat and I know that my winter coat will never smell the same. Even the high chair can’t be spared.
So the baby and I take our wine and sippy cups to the window and watch the snow fall on the Village. Another inch on the windowsill and Daddy will be done, dinner will be ready…
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