Darker, colder, snowier, but curiously cosy in its way, winter enfolds New England. There was so much bad weather this weekend that Bill and I stayed home in Cambridge and I made the first steamed pudding of the year. Can this be a solstitian reflex? I suppose it doesn't count because it wasn't a suet pudding (the suet is in the freezer in
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one of his most tiresome compositions, the 9th Symphony
Heh. I'd be more inclined to say that the last movement is a not entirely successful experiment. (It would have helped if he had a clue how to write for chorus.)
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