We are a winter nation.
Nights like these, when the neighbours' lights shine through the spruce bows, pinpoints of warmth in the snow, home means shelter. Nights like these, when the Slightly Retarded Kitty finds a new favourite hangout, fragrant and soft, under the lighted tree, home means comfort.
The old oven that has been faithfully roasting the noble bird Christmas after Christmas just been given new life, a new element ensuring that the feasting tradition carries on. A pleasant chat with the repair man, newly arrived from New Brunswick, reminds us that we don't really have all that much snow to deal with after all.
Still, with a batch of subversive shortbread to bake when the OKFAR arrives home and a plentiful supply of mamma's little helper on ice, why venture anywhere?