A Striking Sunrise And Snow Showers Forecast For Noon -- Red's Best Pancake House

7:19

7:27

7:47

I was up at my usual time, sometime after 6:00, to a streak of light just above the horizon, some lights on the Bemus shoreline.  It's cold, 24º, the windows on my car are frosted and snow is expected around noon for a brief period. We both worry about the early budding of trees, plants and bushes around here, knowing how fickle the weather can be.  Let's hope the early bloomers can survive numerous frosts as well as a snowfall.  I read where the blueberries that  grow in Maine, in Acadia National Park, are three weeks early, not a good sign.  I worry about our local blueberry farm up on Carpenter-Pringle Road.

John Allen And J. D. in 2010

Today

Yesterday was a very different Sunday for us, as our good friend, John Allen and his son were visiting for twenty four hours.  They live on Maui, so the weather was a bit of a shock even when we helped to bundle them up, both outside and in the house.  They are not used to our in house temperature during the winter of the low 60's.  We got a slow start because 18 year old J. D. slept in, not surprising especially with travel and fighting a sinus infection.  John had been to Red's Pancake us with us a couple of March's ago, so he wanted his son to experience the homey atmosphere of Red's as well as the never ending pile of buckwheat pancakes.  We were, of course, happy to oblige, making this our third trip to Red's this year.  It was packed with people, extraordinarily warm to the Allen's delight.  The pancakes and sausage did not disappoint, as we all ate more than we should have.  They both enjoyed the ride out and back, through the early spring farm lands and landscape of Chautauqua County, so different from the lushness and green of Hawaii Nei.

Buckwheat Pancakes, Maple Syrup, at Red's Pancake House

Not Quite Hawaii Nei

We did not get back until 1:30, relaxed until 3:00, when they headed back to the Cleveland area for a family gathering.  It was a fun visit, short but we packed in quite a bit and J. D. got to enjoy the visit, for his second time.  He was here six summers ago, was able to catch fish as well as kayak.  Not this time.

We had Saturday's leftover dinner of koftes, pita, and tomato sauce for dinner, just as good as the night before. And we watched three more episodes of OCCUPIED, as things are getting more and more intense, as the Russians slowly seem to be occupying Norway.  We ended the evening with lots of laughs, mostly black humor, as Bill Maher skewered not only Trump but the electorate that deserve him.  He blames it all on our coddling of our young, the protectiveness with which we envelop our children, where nobody loses, everyone wins, where we are told to love ourselves.  Funny, some truth I suppose but a bit overboard with his opinion.

And here's a nice way to start your week:  Enjoy this poem from today's Writer's Almanac.

Ordinary Life  by Barbara Crooker  This was a day when nothing happened, the children went off to school remembering their books, lunches, gloves. All morning, the baby and I built block stacks in the squares of light on the floor. And lunch blended into naptime, I cleaned out kitchen cupboards, one of those jobs that never gets done, then sat in a circle of sunlight and drank ginger tea, watched the birds at the feeder jostle over lunch’s little scraps. A pheasant strutted from the hedgerow, preened and flashed his jeweled head. Now a chicken roasts in the pan, and the children return, the murmur of their stories dappling the air. I peel carrots and potatoes without paring my thumb. We listen together for your wheels on the drive. Grace before bread. And at the table, actual conversation, no bickering or pokes. And then, the drift into homework. The baby goes to his cars, drives them along the sofa’s ridges and hills. Leaning by the counter, we steal a long slow kiss, tasting of coffee and cream. The chicken’s diminished to skin and skeleton, the moon to a comma, a sliver of white, but this has been a day of grace in the dead of winter, the hard cold knuckle of the year, a day that unwrapped itself like an unexpected gift, and the stars turn on, order themselves into the winter night.