Sunday was cold and sleety and I wanted to stay in my flannel pajamas all day. I read The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafon, recommended by Amelia in my search for books by Spanish authors. Slightly gothic, with an antiquarian bookstore at the center of the plot, it was perfect for a quiet winter day. I looked up from the book occasionally to watch sleet and swirling snow. That night even the tree trunks were white with icy snow, like frosting.
There is still a foot of snow on the ground. Is it any wonder that orange candles and purple hyacinths in a room with pink walls seemed like a good idea? When I was a child, my best friend, Dorothy, had red hair and was told never to wear pink. I think those days are gone. (And I never hear the name Dorothy any more.)