I left work early today. Slogged through the slush, the wind, the white-out. Spun out on Highway 100: fortunately, no one was behind me. No point contributing to the evening traffic mess. And a keyboard being a keyboard, I can do much of my work from anywhere.

Besides, the kids are home on spring break, and this seems like a perfect day for what they call a "forest dinner:" pot roast with mashed potatoes and broccoli. Something about the rich dark gravy with the green “trees” led to that name. It’s always guaranteed to comfort.

It should be time for the strawberries and asparagus that are around all year now but don’t really make sense until spring.

The roast, browned and covered with all the substances that lead miraculously to gravy, is cooking slowly, while I am rat-tat-ta-tat-tattating out a report. Oprah inveighs about happiness in the background, and I know what she means. Wildness at bay outside; inside safe and warm with good smells, work getting done. Kids safe nearby; it’s all very fine.

Suddenly, something feels different. I don’t know whether the light has shifted, or the sound of the wind has stopped, but the air feels still. Before I look I know the storm has stopped. Just stopped.

Winter will, too. Soon. This will be the last pot roast of winter, or the last pot roast of spring. I'm not sure which to call it.