Paganistan: Notes from the Secret Commonwealth
In Which One Midwest Man-in-Black Confers, Converses & Otherwise Hob-Nobs with his Fellow Hob-Men (& -Women) Concerning the Sundry Ways of the Famed but Ill-Starred Tribe of Witches.
Deep Winter Breakfast
Pickles and Roots
Don't look now, but there are three pink things on my plate.
A beet, walnut, and prune mince—what in Central Europe they call a poor-man's caviar—spread on a nice, thick slice of toast.
The pickled turnip, admittedly, gets its rosy color from beet juice. (By itself, turnip doesn't have much visual appeal.) It doesn't get more Deep Winter than pickled turnip.
Pickled pink radish, bright with lots of fresh ginger.
Throw in a glass of milk and an orange, and that's what passes for breakfast here at Witch Central these days.
Deep Winter: the Eve of Thirty-Ninth Night, with February Eve, the midway-point, still a week and odd days off, and here I am, breakfasting on roots and pickles; and glad I am to have them.
Even so: come on, Spring.
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