Remember, remember the fifth of November,
The gunpowder, treason, and plot.
I can think of no reason why the gunpowder treason
Should ever be forgot.
We had a Guy Fawkes winter picnic last night. As soon as Tim got home from work, we packed up candles and matches, one tin can, two mandarin oranges, three pumpkin muffins, a thermos full of hot chocolate, and a blanket, and plunged down into the river valley.
It was cold. It was so cold, Tim told me, he thought it would be best to give me one of my Christmas presents right then. It was a good time to talk about thermodynamic phase changes, so we did, sitting on a log at the bottom of a little ravine until it got even colder, and then walking up a hill in the river valley proper to settle right at the feet of downtown.
Sometimes I am proud to live in this cold place, proud of my insider knowledge, my whipped blood, my red hands, my candles for dark nights, my chemical handwarmers, electric cupwarmer, fur hat, stoic husband.
(An aside: Is Tim not incredibly handsome?)
The fire was unruly - dry grass feeding on candle wax. The hot chocolate was sweet. Our hands and feet ached. For the first time all year, we felt the temperature dropping by the minute, and though I don't know why, it was exciting.
We hurried back home to start on a birthday cake for Tim's Mum and to make risotto.