winter

in San Francisco is a strange make-believe season.  Still, in the rain and the cold I find myself longing for some wino grzane.  Sure, I can make it myself and I have, but it's just not the same as being able to stop into any bar and warm your freezing hands with a glass of hot mulled wine.  There's something missing in my recipe, and I fear it may be Poland; snow, isolation, ambiguity, unsettlement, yearning, wonder.  Medicine isn't the same when there's nothing for it to cure.

 (photo courtesy of the internet.  yay.)