Winter should be like this. Cold that is white and fresh and clean - snow falling on cedars - and messy hair that smells like the ashes of a dying fire, and big sweater and denim jackets underneath overcoats and puffer jackets. It's a cold that bites, a cold that hits the face and the fingers and the toes, a cold that seems to be so, well, American. It's a cold for tartan, and quilting, and suede fringing, and wide-brim hats. It's a cold for blackened corn on the cob and meat that has been roasting all day. It's a cold that I love.
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