When the weather feels frigid and the wind is blowing and you feel the chill in your bones. When raindrops hang like strings of crystal beads on the glass of the doors and windows and the swollen silver clouds huddle together for warmth. When the lamp inside casts the only glow of yellow ambiance—the sun sulking somewhere far away, having been excluded by the clouds—when the trees are shivering outside and looking mournfully, wistfully in. When you relish every bite of hot spaghetti and garlic bread and buttery zucchini and everything tastes better because it’s hot and warms your insides as if you’re being filled with golden sunlight. When the rain is pounding to get in, drumming a cajoling beat upon the stoic windowpanes, and the wind merrily whistles a tune through battered leaves… Something in the gray, silent air whispers of a winter fast approaching, and I smile up at the sky through my kitchen window.