I'm in the mood to make cookies. I'm eating some right now, you know. Packaged ones, perfectly round and maple sugar scented, with just a hint of espresso behind the sweetness to temper it. The smell and taste of hot coffee on a wintery March morning in Vermont, before the snows have melted, before you're truly awake. Sleepy, sweet, and sharp; the taste of snow and waffles and wood smoke.

Oh, how I wish it could snow. But even when winter comes, we won't get more than a dusting of it; I have my doubts that this drought will ever end. (Though I think the true source of my longing stems from an inexplicable, childish impatience for Christmas. At heart, and frequently at mind as well, I'm nothing more than a highly excitable three year old.)