The name, from a Victorian slang term meaning “tipsy," is in keeping with the unpretentious approach to wine and the communal, convivial vibe. (Nibbles provided, or BYOF.)
The bounty of my urban back porch garden, supplemented by visits to the nearby farmers’ market, provided endless inspiration for many delicious, nutritious meals.
In a letter to the editor, James Manning writes: "How can there be two (2) sets of rules for parking at night and parking during the day, which is just as likely that snow plows will be on the streets in the daytime?"
Good garden hygiene in the fall is preparation for a healthy start in the spring. Clear dead, dying and weed plants before cold weather discourages the effort.
Scarce starlight in the double glowing of the night sky remind us the Soltice is really about light, long days of summer so easy to live with, encouraging us to forget caution and prudence, and, like sky night, burn our candles at both ends.
It’s a simple thing to become desperate and exasperated with the world and its people and events which I have no power to change. Working outside in the waking world gives me time to contemplate, to realize I’m not charged with changing the world. The best I can do is examine my own life in peaceful, quiet, and solitary labor.
In keeping with the annual appearance of this trying period that tests our talent for nimble handling of the steering wheel to dodge those pesky chasms in the pavement and to vault the rolling frost heaves, we invite our readers to send us photos of worst pothole they’ve encountered.
I wouldn’t think piblotoq would be too difficult to diagnose in the Arctic, but given this winter extreme cold and dark I think I’ve had a couple of symptoms of the stuff myself.
Winter came in shyly In December, masquerading as delicate snowflakes, but now cabins us in, piles up around our foundation, hangs over us as icicles, dripping melt one minute, a glittering sword to land on our heads the next.
I am not a man of great or constant religious belief, though I wish at times I were. But I do have faith in the proven dogma of the seasons, of sun and rain and warm and cold passing and coming around again and again over long, slow time.
In the first of her biweekly columns about growing and gardening in the Berkshires, Judy Isacoff writes: "Stars, the sunlit moon and planets circle the expanse of frozen, fertile ground during these long nights. There’s the sense of a night shift at work underground."
You hold an unsullied, childish notion that your soul, once breaking free of mortal restraint, will move on the wings of wind in the company of Dolly and other beloved creatures who have left the Earth.
