cinnamon walnut pear cake with whiskey-mocha fudge

"But there is always a November space after the leaves have fallen when she felt it was almost indecent to intrude on the woods...for their glory terrestrial had departed and their glory celestial of spirit and purity and whiteness had not yet come upon them."
~ L.M. Montgomery, Anne of Windy Poplars

Half my kitchen lost power two weeks ago, a term apparently known as a brownout; unfortunately my oven was included in the bereft half. Adding briny salt to the wound, my archaic boiler also stubbornly refused to produce heat properly (three cheers for farmhouse living!). Thankfully *knock on wood,* everything is now functioning perfectly.

Currently there's a heavy blanket of snow coating the ground, trees, and a befuddled picnic table. Heat is crackling through vintage cosy vents and the oven is content to procure its beloved pies and cakes again, but I am not ready for the glacial chill. I don't know why snow and winter tap into an almost primal feeling of claustrophobia; as though the oppressive milky-grey sky will never again yield to spring's blue or the lush stormy celery greens' of summer. I was literally just beginning to allow myself to melt into the earthiness of autumn. If I dust off the philosopher's stone, there's a tiny part of me, as sharp & shattering as a hip bone, that relishes the grey and the cold and the endlessness. Maybe I fear yielding to this darker half completely, someday. But aren't we all a heady smorgasbord of idiosyncrasies? I doubt I'd feel complete without the sporadic brooding and occasional bout of melancholy.

Four days without heat in 30 F. temperatures makes one extra introspective, obvs. It also induces savage cravings for spiced cakes wicked dark chocolate things.
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