From the archives:
Clementine Paddleford’s masterful essay on the coming tones of winter.
Trees grow bare except the oaks; appetites grow heartier except with anemic pale-livered souls.
Brooks are running out of song. Birds turn more sober and flock as winter friends to pick the seeds of withered weeds. Trees grow bare except the oaks; appetites grow heartier except with anemic pale-livered souls.
Warmth ebbs away. The house draws close around the family at the dinner hour. We think of country kitchen foods, of fresh spareribs baked to a crisp, rich brown, stuffed with breadcrumb dressing, blessed with sage. Bring on the pots of long-baked beans, molasses sweetened, salt pork richened, mustard zested.
What’s in the soup tureen?