It’s hard to believe that it’s the first day of February. Winter has fully settled in now — yet next week we’re in the 40’s and even 50’s?! That’s Missouri for ya.
The garden is covered in snow, its edges bare and quiet, everything tucked away beneath a blanket of white. Bryce closed it off to the girls this week, giving the soil a chance to rest before the fast-approaching work of spring. It feels early and late all at once — the garden is sleeping, but my mind is already turning the calendar forward.
The chickens are enduring their first winter season. They’ve survived their first snowstorm, though they’re not thrilled about being cooped up. They pace and complain in the way only chickens can, unimpressed by the cold and lack of sunshine. We’re still getting eggs from a handful of our girls, though fewer than before the cold snap. With nights dipping into the negatives and days hovering in the teens, even abundance learns to slow down.
Inside, the kitchen has become the warm center of the house. It smells constantly of stock and soups and meals that take their time. Bones simmer on the stove. Vegetables soften slowly. Everything feels intentional in winter — food included. There’s comfort in cooking this way, in letting the hours stretch and fill themselves.
And even as winter holds tight, I can feel spring pulling quietly at the edges.
In the basement, seeds have already been started — small trays of promise under lights, the earliest signs that spring is right around the corner. It feels a little like cheating winter, though I know better. This is how seasons overlap, rest and preparation live side by side.
Winter asks us to wait, but it doesn’t ask us to stop dreaming.
For now, the garden rests. The chickens endure. The kitchen stays warm. And somewhere beneath the snow, the work of spring is already beginning.
Until next time,
I’ll be between the coop and the kitchen
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