While I wait for the yeast to foam and the butter to melt, I stand in a square of sunlight. This winter has been like a monster with low self-esteem, bullying us into buildings and battering the trees. All twenty-five of the degrees today feel like secret messages from Spring. Soon, she says, soon. Tomorrow is March 1st. This old house has cold spots on the floors and a window in the bathroom that invites the winter wind to enter and chill our porcelain throne. So I stand in the center of the sun's affections, flushing away my bleak complexion, while the dog watches. I don't want to be a wife who festers and pesters about money. I vacuum, water the plants and wash the dishes. I eat left overs and a cabbage salad that tires my jaw. Later, I follow snowmobile tracks over hills, into farms and past the frozen river with the wet blue edges. Penny and I think we smell something stinky and I am fairly certain those prints are too big to be from another dog. She pulls and I let her, turning my neck and reaching my eyes around the hood of my coat. From far away, I hope to see a bear. I've never seen a wild one and I'd like to.