Gusting winds bring a sudden burst of fairytale storm: the air is thick with fat white wet snow, piling on every surface outside. The flurry passes. A child comes into the room and offers me a bite of her MacIntosh apple. Late Sunday afternoon music-makers practice in the dining room. I've read most of the paper, and now I'm going into the kitchen to turn some black beans and the leftover steak into chili for supper.