When Margie is at the cabin a cast iron kettle is half filled of water, then heavily dosed with ground cinnamon, set on top of the woodstove. Reminds me of being a kid and walking into the local bakery.
It’s rather pleasant to me, and with all the maple were burning, oh my goodness it’s good in here.
Margie isn’t with us this weekend, holidays, decorating, cookie bakes, gift wrapping, outdoor lights, while her Charlie and some of us try to keep him from being lonely at the cabin, he makes sure the pot is on the boil.
No deer hunting, no firewood to cut, no ice fishing yet, no bunny hunting, no grouse hunting, and it being well below zero, no need other than to sit around, eat, and play cribbage. For real excitement I occasionally scrape frost off the inside of the window panes I try to peer out of, it just looks so cold out. Charlie smokes a pipe, a lot, like if he’s awake, he’s a puffin’ away.
He can smoke that thing, even while eating a sandwich, and his brother Lou, well, his after shave isn’t but his Ben Gay ointment is, rather potent, I usually sit a chair or two away. And makes me appreciate Margie’s kettle all the more.
- The Trout Whisperer
