All I want to do in February is sleep. I’d always assumed this was due to the snowy, cold weather. The cold outside makes settling into soft white socks, heart-printed thermal underwear, and a plush robe a moment of sheer sanctuary. Armed with a cup of tea, shortbread cookies, and a serious book, I’m a literary woman warrior taking a stand against hostile elements. There’s also a bit of “back home” nostalgia stirred in to this fantasy. “Back home in New Hampshire we had to get out of bed in the dark to start a fire. …and at night we’d make a big Dutch ovenful of beef stew and dip biscuits in it.” I have never lived outside of Massachusetts. My parents met in Boston in the late 1940s, settled here after marrying. Yet I was so used to them–having grown up on opposite sides of New Hampshire–refering to that state as “back home” that part of me grew up longing for the deep, dark woods, a creek, or a barn full of chickens. Being comforted by the indoors is combined with respect for the outdoors and with a love of those mighty winters that give bookish homebodies an excuse to fall asleep reading in an emotional and physical retreat. Maybe if I close the blinds and drapes I can pretend a blizzard roars without. I’ll drop marshmallows into liquid chocolate and finally doze off.