We just returned, reluctantly, from a week at El Rancho. I still have a hard-time believing that an old mall rat like me owns a ranch (think Green Acres, not South Fork). It also astounds me how nonchalent I am tossing about phrases like, “Oh, yes, we had to sled our bags 600 feet to the house.” Or, “The house is warm as toast. 50 degrees!”

Here’s a photo.

Don’t get too misty and “oh-isn’t-it-beautiful-in-those-70–mph-winds,” we also spend a goodly amount of time vacuuming up these: (Warning—if you have an entomological aversion, press on to a less graphic blog.)

We can’t figure it out. It’s like as soon as they come indoors, they flip themselves onto their backs and will themselves to die. I must have sucked up about 1,000 corpses. Certainly gives one pause, to be surrounded by so much, um, death.

Amazingly, I adore it. The mountains get into your bones like the cold and become part of you. Chatting with guests, I finished the knitting on my Cheryl Oberle Little Edo—exactly two years in the making. One shoulder is seamed, but there is a collar to knit. I’m hoping this weekend…

But, enough about me. How are you?

Here’s to a happy, healthy New Year, full of salacious blog posts, fine stitching and a President who can deploy the English language and foster peace.