Confessions of a February Hibernator

By the time February settles in here in New Hampshire, winter feels less like a season and more like a state of being. The snowbanks are high, the landscape has gone quiet and monochromatic, and daily life adjusts around cold temperatures and early evenings. I’ve always loved winter for its slower pace and the way it encourages us to stay close to home, but this particular stretch — when the holidays are long past and spring still feels distant — has a way of stirring a quiet restlessness in me.

I’m not a winter outdoor enthusiast. I don’t ski or snowmobile or look for reasons to be outside when it’s frigid. I’m happiest admiring winter from inside, and for most of the season that suits me just fine. But by mid-February, even that comfortable rhythm begins to feel smaller.

Not unhappy. Not discouraged. Just ready for something to shift.

When I start to feel that restlessness, I turn inward — usually toward the kitchen. This winter I’ve been working with lavender I grew last summer, folding it into scones and shortbread and steeping it into water just to bring a hint of something floral and fresh into the house. There’s something grounding about opening a jar of dried herbs while snow covers the garden beds they came from. It feels like a quiet reminder that seasons move forward, even when they appear frozen.

I’ve also been purging — drawers, closets, shelves that quietly collect more than they need. February has a way of revealing what’s useful and what’s simply taking up space. With fewer distractions and fewer places to go, it feels natural to clear things out.

Tom, aka Whiskey, has been busy with work, which is a good balance for us right now. While he’s out in the world, I’m here rearranging cabinets and testing recipes. It’s a quieter season for me, working part-time, and I’m learning to appreciate the different rhythm that comes with that.

And then, just as the restlessness was settling in, the maple sap began to run.

Now we’re collecting sap and simmering it down on the wood cookstove, watching it slowly transform from a clear liquid to a thick golden syrup. The house smells faintly sweet, and the steady process gives this stretch of winter a sense of purpose again. It feels distinctly New Hampshire — patient and seasonal.

Maybe that’s what February is meant for. Not excitement or big movement but tending to small things. Clearing space. Trying new recipes. Letting sap boil down slowly. Waiting for the light to shift.

I still love winter.

I’m just aware that even a season I cherish has its quieter, more restless middle.

And perhaps that’s part of the rhythm too.

— Julie aka Wine

P.S. I've updated the recipe page on the website to include the Lavender Ginger Scones. Each recipe is in a PDF format for easy printing.

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