A friend’s husband showed up unexpectedly at my doorstep yesterday afternoon. He’d been up canyon on his bike when it had begun to snow. By the time he reached my house, going some 40 miles an hour down Clear Creek, he was blue. His hands were frozen and the inner linings of his eyes were swollen to an alarming shade of red.
Could he sit down for a second and warm up?
I shooed him in the door, got the dogs off the couch and plugged in the electric blanket. Soon, the kettle was singing and his hands warmed around a mug of tea. Dinner was already on the stove — Spanish chorizo and lentils from this month’s Cooks Illustrated. I had pans of salted caramel upside down pineapple cakes on the oven waiting to go in next.
He warmed up slowly, and stayed for hours, telling how he realized he was in trouble when he couldn’t keep both hands on the bike. Navigating down the canyon with two hands is terrifying, doing so with one hand tucked under your other arm for warmth is suicide. Thankfully, he made it. I promised him he wouldn’t have to ride any farther today; we’d find a way for he and his bike to get home.
Soon, BJ joined us around the dinner table, swapping stories of our day and sipping soup. The snow began to fall in thick flakes. By the time dessert was served, inches of fluffy powder rested on the roofs of cars, the patio table, the greenhouse light fixtures, and everything in between. The mountains, so near, were out of sight for more than 14 hours as the snow continued to dance downward.
The soup was even better as leftovers today for lunch, enjoyed from the small kitchen table with a view of a golden sun, ringed by the brightest, clearest blue skies.
Time to walk the dogs, plan the next meal and push forward. Visitors are always welcome.