What Do You Do When It's Ten Degrees Below Zero?

Well, first, you try not to go outside.  Second, you bake bread.  I got all the bread dough

baked into loaves, three not four like the recipe says.  Evidently I have trouble visualizing a grapefruit-sized glob of dough.  *shrugs*  The first loaf (not shown) spread out instead of rising and then it stuck to the pizza peel (not enough cornmeal, I guess) so I ended up scraping it off the wood onto the baking stone so it's kind of misshapen and odd looking.  Still tastes good but not very attractive.  Maybe I'll leave that one at home for Durwood since he's kind of got a brutz on about my plan to take it ALL with me to The Clearing this weekend.  I always bring some home with me but he's looking a little sorry for himself.  He can have the ugly loaf.


I spent bread rising and baking time getting the new year pages of my Bullet Journal all set up.  I decided not to start a new book since I'd only used half of this one for 2017.  I don't do all the indexing and planning ahead parts laid out in the strict Bullet Journal directions and I'm not a calligrapher or an artist so my BuJo is fairly straightforward--daily to-do list and journal wrap-up with a calendar list to start the month with appointments, birthday, and events on the first page with habit trackers and books-read list on the facing page.  I use washi tape to make a tab for each month and to stick in fabric swatches and quotes I like here and there.  When I was laid up with my broken ankle I drew in there but I had a lot of time on my hands and was chemically enhanced to think I could draw.  No more, I'm back to my uptight about drawing self now that I've put the pain meds behind me.  I write in it with a fountain pen, though, that's as fancy as I get.

I'm wearing my Navajo flannel dress today--and I wish it had sleeves.  Actually I wish it had a hood, sleeves, and was floor length.  Holy Moses, it's cold.  They're talking about it getting up into the 20s by the weekend and that sounds like balmy weather compared to what we've had the last couple weeks.  Putting plastic on the window and opening the duct a little was a great idea; I wasn't burrowed down under the covers like a mole this morning and didn't have to steel myself to get out of bed--and there's carpet on the floor.

January 1--Vincent van Gogh, Irises.  The flowers thought they were special.  You could tell by the vivid colors, the petals that arced and posed, and the fuzzy inner parts.  Irises stood like models among the green spiky leaves flaunting their beauty and throwing come-hither looks at passing honey bees.

And I didn't even stay up too late.  I was in bed before 11 o'clock and the light was off by 10 after.  I'm hoping to get tucked in even earlier tonight.  It's hard work staying warm.  Happy New Year!
--Barbara