Today is sunny and warm, winter warm at 42°, but, despite the nice day, I’m still hibernating. I haven’t been out of the house except to get the paper and the mail in the front yard. I am fighting a cold. I’m winning. Today is a better day.

When I was a kid, I had the usual kid diseases, but other than those, I was seldom sick. I hated to miss school but an every now and then sick day was welcomed. I got to lie on the couch, watch television and be waited on by my mother. She always served soup for lunch, usually tomato with a grilled cheese sandwich, the most iconic pairing since Adam and Eve. Her grilled cheese sandwiches were the stuff of legend. They were perfectly browned and oozing cheese, Velvetta. The soup was thick. My mother made it with milk instead of water. That lunch made being sick worthwhile.

My dance card is empty. I have nothing uke until next Tuesday, my practice night. I’m enjoying this time off as the weeks before Christmas were so busy, so filled with concerts.

Winter got boring when it got too cold to go out to play and far too cold for a bike ride. My afternoons were spent watching TV or reading. Sometimes I’d sit at the kitchen table and watch my mother making supper. I remember her mashing the potatoes right in the pan with the metal masher. It clanged when it hit the sides of the pan. She’d add milk and keep mashing. Finally she’d add butter and let it melt into the potatoes. I love mashed potatoes. I love my mother’s mashed potatoes.

We had a lot of ground beef when I was a kid. I never minded as it was served so many different ways. I loved my mother’s meatloaf. She’d sometimes spread the top with ketchup and cover the ketchup with bacon strips. I’d try to steal some of the crispy bacon out of the oven but my mother was on alert. She’d also serve her meatloaf spread with a frosting of mashed potatoes which she browned in the oven. My mother served food from elsewhere adding an international flair to her ground beef. We ate Chinese, Italian, Mexican and, a hybrid, American chop suey, an oxymoron of sorts. I always have ground beef in my freezer.

In Bolga, I could buy meat, beef, at the meat stall in the market. It took very little time before I was inured to the meat market. I swear the butchers wore the same aprons my entire two years of shopping there. I came to recognize many of the stains. We got so close I should have given them names. Anyway, the butcher always cut me a piece of beef tenderloin, weighed it then wrapped it in banana leaves for me. For dinner the beef was either sliced then cooked in a tomato sauce or ground and also cooked in a tomato sauce, the same tomato sauce by taste. Choices were limited in Bolga.

I am taking my time this morning. During the night I was invaded by some evil bug. I think a cold is brewing. My nose is full, and I’ve been every now and then coughing. I cancelled my dentist appointment for today and will probably cancel my uke lesson tomorrow morning. I’ve only been up for a couple of hours, and I already want a nap. My sister’s first question was, “How did you get it?” That was a great question. I thought about it. It had to be the grocery store stop a few days ago as I haven’t been anywhere else since the uke concert on New Year’s Eve.

I’m not enjoying this, the coughing and the sniffing. I am reminded of my father and his white handkerchiefs. He was never without one. He used to keep one in his back pants pocket. If I sneezed, he’d hand over his wrinkled, used handkerchief. They didn’t start out that way, wrinkled. My mother used to iron my father’s handkerchiefs. Sometimes I did. The motions from one handkerchief to the next didn’t change. Iron the whole cloth, then fold in half and iron each half then fold again and iron each side. After that, only square handkerchiefs were left. They got piled then put in his drawer. There were always handkerchiefs needing ironing.

What amazes me is how sometimes a picture, a scene, jumps into my head from a way back memory drawer jogged by a smell or a look or a taste. The other day it was the smell of popcorn. My mother would make it standing at the stove and shaking the covered pan filled with a few kernels in oil. After one or two popped, she’d add all the kernels. When it had finished popping, she’d put the popcorn in the big tulip bowl and have melted butter to pour on the popcorn. Strangely enough, I remember the sticky feel of my fingers from picking up the popcorn covered in butter with only a little salt. I remember it was delicious.

Most places are dark now. All the colors of Christmas are gone. In my neighborhood, the house diagonally across from my backyard always leaves an outside light on. It is the only light anywhere around. Sometimes I like that light as it shares its light with me. Sometimes I hate that light. It ruins the dark sense of the night, the calmness of the night, by its garish brightness. Sometimes I forget about that light until I let Henry inside and see the light on. I think winter is its best time.