Bliss

Give monshu credit: He understands staging. I walked in from six hours on the road to find every light blazing, a roaring fire in the fireplace, Telemann on the stereo, and the scent of sauerbraten wafting through the air. Funny thing is, I was so disoriented after a week at my sister's that my first thought was not I'm home again but Some kind friend has invited me into their beautiful apartment.

Completing the scene was a fresh snowfall. Coming up on 57, we saw remnants of an earlier storm in the furrows of the fields. On the outskirts of Cook County, it began to mist, and by the time we crossed over to Lake Shore Drive, it was a flurry. There was enough snow on the ground in Lincoln Park for sledding and enough on our pavements that after dinner Scooter took out the snowblower and cleaned them.

Dinner was amazing; when I make Frankish-style sauerbraten, I use boughten Lebkuchen. But my man? He melts sugar into German forest honey over a hot stove and bakes up a fresh batch. Rounding out the meal: Landspätzle, Blaukraut, and baby spinach with poppyseed dressing. (As he confessed to my stepmom, he didn't make the Spätzle; but it was imported from Swabia, which is the next best thing.) It's difficult to imagine a more perfect meal to come home to.

My parents couldn't stay long; they had a rendezvous with my stepsiblings at a hotel near O'Hare. I hope they made it there okay, but frankly I don't want to know, not until tomorrow. Perfect days like this come only a few times a year--at most--and I'm still savouring this one.