That's what they are calling it - the Polar Vortex, an arctic storm extending its cold embrace all the way into the South, with temperatures expected to reach zero or just below by morning. I drove up to Town to run some errands, and while there was a lot of good-natured joking at the Post Office about why I was not out running in my shorts, the thought had not occurred to me. Temperatures were in the teens by then and continued to drop during the afternoon. The tops of all the northern ridges were white with rime - hoar frost - and the wind was picking up. We did not have the 12 to 14-inch snow with three-foot drifts that my sister, who lives in Indiana, has been telling me about, but it was too cold for this runner to venture out.
It was a good day to stay indoors instead and learn to bake bread from this book I gave Martha for Christmas:
About 4:00, I sent out an e-mail, asking where all the runners were, and including a photo of pansies.
I was horrified to learn that Bob had run - about a mile in all - in 6-degree temperatures. I shot him an e-mail containing photographs of a frostbitten face, but told him he had my grudging admiration.
And then I cut into my first loaf of bread.
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