First Touch of Winter: Autumn’s First Gust and Cozy Signs

At 9 a.m. I woke up feeling rested. The house was unusually quiet. Still lying in bed, I turned toward P.’s side to warm myself against the place where he had been sleeping. To my surprise he was already up and downstairs making breakfast. I stretched my legs toward the foot of the bed and cracked the window to let the cold winter air in. It was sharper than I expected, so I slipped back under the covers and dozed off, warmed by the memory of his body beside me. When I woke again the house was empty—he had left for work—and the soft winter light filtered through the blinds. I smiled, sensing that today would be different. The weather felt like a promise.

Snow was on its way.

There are plenty of things people complain about in winter: shoveling sidewalks, soggy shoes, fingers that stay cold even with thick gloves, or long stretches of gray skies. Those are fair complaints. Still, I like to remind myself of what I love about winter. For me, it is everything. While some crave beaches and sunshine, I crave snowy landscapes and that particular hush that comes with them.

“I don’t understand your thing about winter,” my friend K. once told me when I admitted I was eager for snow.

But there is so much to love about my winter obsession. I imagine going for a walk in fresh snow and noticing the tracks my long steps leave behind; feeling flakes brush my skin and melt instantly; breathing the brisk air that turns my cheeks rosy; and, most of all, appreciating the stillness. Compared to winter’s hush, summer can feel loud. I look forward to baking, drinking hot chocolate, simmering large pots of soup, and repeating those small rituals because they always feel as comforting the second day as the first.

I love the first snowfall each season. Every year I get excited in the same way. When the first flakes began to fall slowly outside, I felt an urge to bake, walk through the park, play in the snow and take photographs—and I did all of those things. By the time I returned home, a pot of homemade soup was waiting. I made two hearty tartines to go with it.

I used two slices of seeded multi-grain bread, topped each with slices of St Maure cheese, and placed them under the broiler just long enough for the cheese to melt. I then added prosciutto and thin slices of pear. The previous evening I had made a vegetable soup from whatever I had in the fridge—parsnips, celeriac, potato and squash—seasoned with cumin and coriander. A dollop of crème fraîche and some fresh chopped coriander finished the bowl. Within thirty minutes of sitting down, the windowpanes were dusted with a thin coat of snow.

“I want to go out again,” I thought as I neared the end of my lunch.

I cleared the table quickly. Before putting on my coat and boots I grabbed a slice of the pistachio dark chocolate brownies I’d baked that morning using amaranth and quinoa flours—my second batch in two days. I had added a batch of especially vibrant pistachios; they were impossibly green and delicious.

“It’s supposed to snow for two days,” P. said when he came home earlier than usual.

I hope so. That would let me enjoy these small rituals again—long walks, a steaming bowl of soup, melted cheese on warm bread and another slice of brownie. They taste as comforting on the second day as they did the first, even if it’s no longer the season’s first snow.