On Wednesday the snow started in mid-afternoon, coming down in fat, fluffy white flakes the size of quarters. I stood in the kitchen, looking out at the farm, and watched the world turn whiter and whiter, like standing inside the glass of a snow globe that was being shaken slowly.
Walking outside in the height of the snowstorm was beautiful, to put it lightly. Although the farm is always quiet by most people’s standards, I’m attuned to its noises: the tittering of cardinals and white-breasted nuthatches at the bird feeder, the snuffling of our Yorkshire pig Elliot as he ambles around the edge of the stream, the heavy breathing of the four Jersey cows plodding from the upper pasture, the lonely echoing call of geese high overhead.
But stepping into heavy snow is like watching a movie and pressing mute: the entire world goes quiet, save for a low-level whooshing sound, like a white noise machine on the quietest setting. There’s a specific hush to snowstorms that’s unlike any other kind of quiet.
Nine inches of snow later, the flakes have turned to sleet—when I walk around the three ponds just around sunset, I have to shut my eyes as the wind whips icy pellets against my skin. Sound returns to the world: ice falling against ice in silvery plink plink plinks.
I tiptoe downstairs the next morning to witness the farm wreathed in white. I pull on heavy snow boots, bundling up the baby in a fleece suit and hat, his arms and legs comically stiff at his sides as I buckle him into a hiking backpack. We walk down to the stream—each step is as hard as walking up stairs. A thin crust of ice has formed over the snow, so you have to stomp down hard then pull up with your boot.
As I reach the tangle of brambles and milkweed, I see that every individual branch and grass is encased in a layer of ice. Sunrise has just passed and the light is peeking over the woods and beginning to touch the tops of the trees—the phrase the glittering world keeps repeating in my head.
I keep up a steady stream of chit-chat, pointing out a white-tailed deer darting into the bushes off to our left, and stepping closer to the edge of the pond to look for the telltale dappled shell of a snapping turtle in hibernation.
(Side note: Did you know that snapping turtles can survive for months underwater? They undergo a version of hibernation—called brumation—wherein their metabolism drops to match their body temperature under the ice. Other turtles, like a sea turtle, can only hold their breath underwater for several hours. You are WELCOME for that mini episode of Natural Wonders Courtesy of Me.)
I pick up small branches and toss them onto the ice, watching them skitter across the surface.
We spot a great blue heron high overhead, the delicate tracks of a fox, and a few scattered drops of red—bright and startling against the white snow. I bend to look closer—it’s blood: left behind from a small scratch on an animal or a bird.
The days are so short still—the sky is dark by 5 PM. The upside is that the sunset is early enough that I can meet my sister and walk through the fields while the sky flares into lashes of hibiscus pink and tangerine orange.
We come inside for dinner, she to her house that sits up on the hill and I to my parents’ house just a few moments walk further. I switch on the gas fireplace, listening the hiss and crackle as the flame jumps to life.
Upstairs, I can hear the baby babbling and splashing in the tub; every night I pop him in for a few minutes with my mom when she takes her evening bath before dinner while I take a quick shower.
We all come down, cozy and clean and rosy-cheeked. After the little one goes to bed, we turn down the lights and settle into our customary spots. I sit in a rocking chair directly in front of the fire (no, I can never be warm enough, thanks for asking); my mom lying back on one small upright sofa, my dad in the cushy striped swivel armchair by the window.
We watch an episode: in the past weeks we’ve made our way through Julian Fellowes’ Belgravia and then Doctor Thorne, The Queen’s Gambit, and now we’re halfway through the final season of The Crown.
We have quiche, because it’s what I request every night: my ultimate winter comfort food and something that no one makes as well as my mom. Don’t argue. It’s true. (She, of course, gets the *Mother of the Year 2020 and Always* award for indulging me.)
Some nights we have kale quiche: heavy on the greens. (Our garden is still yielding kale—even beneath a coat of snow!) She tosses mounds of it into a big cast iron skillet, sautéing it until it just softens, then squeezing out the water and chopping it up, stirring in eggs and milk and adding a handful of grated baby Swiss cheese. Bits of cheese peek out from the filling; they melt into a shiny cap the color of burnished gold in the oven. The crust is almost impossibly flaky yet sturdy enough that nothing leaks.
Because it’s my favorite, she makes broccoli quiche too. The tips of the broccoli get crispy and the florets soften into the wobbly, eggy custard of the filling.
We eat on our laps; I’m wearing silky-soft pajamas—dark teal with white piping— and I pull an oversized L.L.Bean flannel of my dad’s over top.
There’s a string of Christmas lights on the mantel, and over on the kitchen island, the village is all lit up. (The village is a collection of miniature buildings that my mom made in her woodshop one year: a church, a general store, a barn, and a house.)
Earlier today she made cinnamon rolls, which she only makes at the holidays. Instead of the puffy, oversized ones you’re used to, these are smaller and more tightly rolled with a compact spiral of dark cinnamon sugar filling in the center. They come from The Southern Heritage Breads Cookbook—a cookbook so old and loved in our kitchen that the spine is falling apart.
The scent of cinnamon and butter still hangs in the air. The rug in front of the hearth is bathed in firelight but the rest of the kitchen and house is dark and quiet.
Southern Kitchen Cinnamon Rolls
Adapted from the Southern Heritage Breads Cookbook
2 packages (4 1/2 teaspoons) instant or active dry yeast
1 teaspoon sugar
1/4 cup warm water
1 cup milk
1 3/4 cups butter, divided
1 2/3 cups granulated sugar, divided
2 eggs, beaten
1 teaspoon salt
5 cups all-purpose flour
1/2 cup firmly packed brown sugar
1 tablespoon cinnamon
In a small bowl, whisk together the yeast, 1 teaspoon sugar, and warm water and let stand for 5 minutes.
Combine the milk and 1 cup of the butter in a large heatproof bowl—microwave (or warm in a pan) until the milk is warm and the butter is beginning to melt. It’s fine if it’s not fully melted at first; stir until the butter melts in the warm milk.
Add 2/3 cup of sugar, the eggs, and the salt. Stir to combine.
Add the yeast mixture and 4 cups of flour, stirring (by hand or in a stand mixer) until the dough comes together. The dough should be very soft but not sticky—if it’s too sticky, add the remaining cup of flour, a little bit at a time.
Transfer the dough to a greased bowl and cover with plastic wrap. Let rise for about 1 hour, or until about doubled in size.
While the dough rises, make the filling: Mix together the remaining 1 cup granulated sugar, the brown sugar, and the cinnamon.
Divide the dough in half and, working with one half a time, place it on a lightly floured surface. Roll the dough out into a large rectangle, about 20” x 8”.
Melt the remaining 3/4 cup butter and brush it over the top of the dough. Sprinkle half of the filling in an even layer over the dough.
Starting with the long side closest to you, roll the dough up into a tight log. Pinch it closed, then cut the log into 1” slices (don’t be tempted to make them thicker!).
Repeat with the second half of the dough.
Arrange the slices in lightly greased 9” round cake pans. If you have a few slices left over, just pop them into a small pan if you have one or into the greased wells of a muffin tin.
Cover the pans loosely with plastic wrap. Let rise for about an hour while you preheat the oven to 375 degrees F.
After the second rise, bake the rolls for 20 minutes or until lightly browned.